Growing Stronger
by SythiaSkyfire
Summary: Something unprecedented happens when Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen are selected for the Hunger Games: for the first time in history, two tributes will be going into the Games as a couple. Katniss and Peeta are together from Day 1- and that means changes for the 74th Hunger Games. Does love really conquer all? The sequel to Growing Together, but can also be read by itself.
1. Chapter 1

**Here it is, as promised. The sequel to Growing Together. **

**Growing Stronger!**

**Katniss and Peeta are going into the Games together... as a couple. What will this mean for our favorite tributes?**

**I hope you guys enjoy. :D**

**__****Disclaimer: Anthing you recognize, such as characters, I do not own. I don't own the images used in the cover, either, though I did put it together to make the overall cover image. So no suing, please. :) This disclaimer pretains to all the chapters in this story.**

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**~Peeta POV~**

The feeling hits me before I even open my eyes. The shiver of foreboding crawls up my spine, seeping through my skin. I don't need a single second to orient myself, because I know exactly where I am- and when. After all, that's all I've thought about for the past week. The past month, really. And, when your mind plagues you with nightmares about what may or may not happen to you the next day, it takes no time at all to know what day it is when you wake up.

Today is the day of the reaping.

When I do open my eyes, I glance over at the bed beside the wall opposite me, but I don't need to. Rye never gets up later than dawn, especially on reaping day. One year, he rose three hours before the sun, when the stars were still glittering in the sky. Not me. I figure, every hour spent asleep is an hour spent not agonizing over what this year's Games will bring. That is, if you can evade the nightmares. This year, I managed to sleep an extra hour or two after sunrise, judging by the quality of light filtering through the curtains.

I throw on normal working clothes- the reaping is at two, so there's no sense getting dressed up before then- and descend the stairs. My father greets me with a tight smile and pushes forward a plate of last week's pastries. I brighten at this. They may be stale, but we rarely ever get to eat anything as expensive as pastries. They sell so fast that they don't usually go stale, and so we're left to eat tough loaves of sourdough bread and crumbling muffins for breakfast. But today is special, as no one in Twelve- in any district- is likely to forget.

I accompany one of the pastries with a lukewarm cup of tea that Rye must have set out at least an hour ago, and then pull on an apron and go straight to the ovens. Even today, there's work to do. Especially today. Families will be coming in later in the afternoon and evening, to celebrate one more year of safety. The evening meal on reaping day is tradition, by now, and so is the accompanying dessert. Merchant families almost always buy a couple cupcakes, or a tart, or sometimes even a cake. Thankfully, cakes happen to be my specialty. Decorating them is almost like painting. I console myself with this as I stand over the counter with a frosting tube, shaping violet petals on an ivory icing base. It's not quite as good as having real paints, but it's better than charcoal pencils, which invariably crumble or leave smears on paper.

There's a knock on the back door, and I look up hopefully. There's a good chance it's Katniss, stopping by to trade with my father. And if it is, I can snag her before she leaves and steal a kiss. For good luck. But it's not Katniss, it's Gale. He talks quietly with my father, casting a glance over his shoulder before they start to discuss the trade. He leaves with a loaf of light bread tucked under his arm, and my father slips off to place the squirrel he recieved somewhere my mother won't find it. I have a feeling that lunch will be squirrel meat in a stew, or maybe just cooked and lightly seasoned- none of our stomachs can handle anything heavy right now.

The morning crawls by slowly, as it always does on this day. I spend the time in the back, kneading next to my brothers, and behind the counter. Customers are minimal, most only buying what they need for lunch. After all, why waste money on food you might be there to eat? Better to wait until after the reaping, when you know your whole family will be at home and safe. The mayor seems to have no such concern. He strides in around noon, his daughter, Madge, trailing after him. Madge wears a dainty, white dress with lace sleeves, and a shiny, pink ribbon holds her hair back in a side-ponytail. She keeps her eyes downcast, as if she's uncomfortable, and I can see why. Her father makes a point of walking straight to the cakes in the front of the shop, examining the prices for the most expensive one and pointing it out with a flourish. My mother, suddenly all smiles and little, bobbing curtseys and friendly handshakes, rushes about with fabricated zeal to personally lift it off the shelf and box it up, adding a handwritten note to the top.

As soon as the mayor leaves, hefting the white cake box and calling for Madge to follow, my mother looks to me. "Was that one of yours?" she asks sharply. Now that the most powerful man in District Twelve is gone, her smile had disappeared entirely, leaving no hint that it was ever there in the first place.

"Yes, Ma'am," I answer.

She counts out the coins slowly, making sure to touch each one before placing it in its pile. I wait silently for her verdict. At last she sorts the coins into the cash register on the counter, seeming pleased with the amount. Then she looks up at me, gives a single nod of approval, and vanishes into the back once again. I suppose that's her way of saying, "Good job." Or maybe just, "Not as bad as usual." Either way, I escaped a lecture about working hard to contribute to the family's earnings. That's one more small thing to cheer me up.

It's been this way since I was small. Maybe seven or eight. Be useful to the family, make money, and don't get in the way. If you don't, you've earned yourself a cuff on the ear and a tongue-lashing. Since the time I grew taller than her, that rule has been edited to exclude the strike (usually), but that just means her rants are longer and more vehement.

It's one o'clock. In sixty minutes, I will be standing in the square. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I force down lunch anyway. Going with an empty stomach will just make it harder. Rye shares my drawn, pale face, but Sand seems unconcerned. He already attended his last reaping. He's done. I envy him.

At one thirty we put on our reaping clothes. I wear one of Sand's old outfits, since he doesn't have to dress nicely. It's just a crisply ironed pair of trousers and a nice button-up shirt, paired with a clean pair of shoes, but still much nicer than the clothes I usually wear. My mother combs and shapes my hair with gel and an unnecessary amount of force. Rye dresses in an almost identical outfit, complete with gelled-back hair. We could be twins, if he wasn't an inch taller than me and wider in the shoulders. We exchange small, tense smiles.

At one forty five, we leave the bakery. The crowd of people we join as we trudge towards the square gives the streets an ominous feel. So many bodies in one place, so many people, should make a lot of noise. But the only sound is the tramp of feet. As we near the square, we hear a very faint buzzing from the cameras stationed on roofs and the earpieces that the Peacekeepers wear. It's barely audible, but it worms its way into my skull like a siren, triggering a headache that builds in my temples. I distract myself by looking for Katniss. She would be coming from the other side of the square, but we all have to sign in at the same place. Rye and I get in line while our parents and Sand go to stand along the edge of the square, to watch, as is the rule. Everyone watches the reaping in person, unless it's too crowded to fit into the square, and then, you watch on televisions from side streets. Even if you were somehow allowed to stay home with a serious illness, you'd have to watch it later in the recaps. There's no escaping it.

I spot Katniss just as I'm getting signed in by the nearest Peacekeeper. She's with Prim, of course, but I barely recognize the blonde braids of her little sister before I'm completely focused on Katniss herself. She looks beautiful. The first thing I notice about her is her dress, which is a rich, sky blue. It falls just below her knees, and the collar dips down slightly in the front, forming a shallow V. The next thing I notice is her hair, which has been coiled elegantly into a braided knot against her head. She doesn't see me, but she cranes her neck and gazes into the crowd, as if she's searching for something. She leads Prim through the line and they both sign in. Meanwhile, I'm fighting through the crowd, trying to reach them. I want to see Katniss up close, kiss her, tell her it's going to be okay, before Effie Trinket reaches into the reaping bowl. But then Katniss leaves Prim in the area marked for twelve-year-olds and slips off into the crowd, and I lose sight of her.

Rye has already gone to stand with his own age group, and I decide it's as good a plan as any. Katniss will be with the sixteens, anyway. I find my way to the square of roped-off pavement designated for sixteen-year-olds and scan the sea of mixed light and dark heads for Katniss's dark, chocolaty, almost-black one. I can't find her. I'm just about to start moving, because she might be closer to the center, when the clock strikes two and the mayor steps forward to start his speech. The crowd settles and fixes its gaze on him grimly, readying itself to, once again, hear the story of Panem, the mighty Capitol surrounded by thirteen- now twelve- districts. Most of us have it almost memorized by now. I see one boy mouth along sarcastically as the Mayor finishes with, "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."

He then reads the laughably short list of past District Twelve victors. As he finishes, the last living victor Twelve has seen appears in a cloud of curses and alcohol fumes. He collapses into a chair, obviously drunk, and lunges toward Effie Trinket as if he's about to hug her. She dodges him, and her pink wig slips slightly. This triggers a few muffled sniggers from the crowd, but, out of respect for our only victor, they suppress them quickly.

The mayor hastily introduces Effie, who bounces up and approaches the reaping bowls, her high heels clicking loudly against the stage. "Happy Hunger Games!" she trills. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

She goes on to gush about how exciting this all is, and what an honor it is to be here, but I've finally located Katniss. She's standing a few yards in front of me and to the left, half-obscured by a tall Seam boy. Her hands hang loosely by her sides, but I can see her fingers twitching. She's nervous. Of course she is. Twenty slips inside the girls' reaping bowl say _Katniss Everdeen_. I'm nervous, too, but suddenly the anxiousness isn't for me.

Effie finishes her monologue and chirps, "Ladies first!"

If the crowd was quiet before, it's deathly silent now. No one even dares to breathe as Effie's pale, pink-clawed hand plunges into the glass bowl. She rummages around unnecessarily before slowly drawing out one folded piece of paper. Then everyone does breathe, as one, pulling air into our lungs and keeping it there as she crosses back to the microphone and slips one long nail under the tiny piece of tape keeping the slip closed. She flicks it open, and I would close my eyes if I could, but my gaze is locked unblinkingly on the slip, and my entire being is consumed by one thought… _Not Katniss. Not Katniss._

Effie clears her throat delicately before reading the slip with careful pronunciation.

"Primrose Everdeen."

At first, those syllables in that order don't register in my brain. Primrose Everdeen. Prim-rose Ev-er-deen. Prim. _Prim._

Oh, god. _Katniss_.

I'm wriggling through the crush of bodies towards her, because I know that if this is terrible for me, it's indescribable for Katniss. Sweet Prim, reaped for the Hunger Games. I can see her blonde braids out of the corner of my eye as she steps slowly toward the stage. Katniss is watching her, too, and I see something building in those gray eyes. Just before I reach her, that something snaps.

"Prim!"

Her agonized cry goes straight to my heart, and I walk faster, trying to get to her.

But then she starts to move.

"Prim!"

_What is she doing?_

The crowd parts for her, giving her a straight shot to her little sister. Katniss dashes forward and thrusts herself between Prim and the stage. And then I know what's happening. I know what that look in her eyes meant. _No._

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

_No!_ Now I'm moving again, like Katniss moved to Prim, but the crowd is closing up and I'm not fast enough. She's already said it. But if I can get to her, if I can grab her and take her away, then… What? What could I do? Nothing. Something that might be a sob sticks in my throat, coming out as a choked sound that blends, unnoticed, into the other small noises around me.

"Lovely!" Effie is saying. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth, then we, um…"

Winner? Reaping _winner_? As if going into the Games was a prize and not a death sentence.

The mayor, looking strange, says, "What does it matter?" He repeats it. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

I see Gale striding up the isle toward the sisters. Prim has locked her arms around Katniss's waist, screaming and sobbing at the same time, and Katniss says something to her. She's obviously trying to push Prim away, but in the end, it takes Gale to gently pry apart her interlocked fingers and pick her up. He murmurs something to Katniss before carrying a shrieking, crying Prim towards her mother. Katniss turns resolutely towards the stage.

Effie asks for Katniss's name, which she speaks into the microphone, and all I can think is, _I'm losing her. I'm losing her. She wasn't even reaped and I'm losing her._

"Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" Effie squeals, clapping her own hands together in excitement, like a child. Her claps echo in the completely silent square, and before long they fade to nothing.

Then something astonishing happens. Someone from the Seam touches three fingers of their left hand to their lips, then lifts them towards Katniss. The gesture is repeated on the other side of the square, and then near the back, and within the space of just a few seconds, everyone is saluting Katniss with the old gesture of respect. I join them, wishing the kiss I press to my fingertips could be delivered straight to her. At the same time, I'm marveling at this occurrence. Nothing like this has ever happened before, to my knowledge. Showing this gesture of respect and goodbye to a tribute is… almost rebellious. It says, _We do not agree_. And that can be deadly for a district.

Katniss's lips press together, and I know she's about to cry. _No, Katniss,_ I plead. _Don't cry. If you do, they'll see. You're strong. You can do this._ But then Haymitch, the one and only victor left in District Twelve, hauls himself out of his chair and blunders across the stage. He throws an arm around Katniss's shoulders, nearly knocking her to the ground. Her nose wrinkles.

"Look at her," he slurs. "Look at this one! I like her! Lots of…" He trails off, bleary eyes roaming over the crowd as if the word he's searching for is there. "Spunk! More than you!" He lurches away from her and aims a shaky finger at a camera hovering near the stage. "More than you!"

He obviously has more to say, but his shoe catches on the edge of the stage and he topples off, knocking himself unconscious. A stretcher arrives suspiciously quickly- did they suspect Haymitch would be too drunk to walk? – and he's carried off. I watch Katniss, trying to catch her eye, but she's staring impassively into the distance, hands linked behind her back. Her ability to mask her emotions is impressive, but I know her, and I can see the maelstrom of emotions buried in her eyes.

"What an exciting day," Effie says, "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose the boy tribute!"

Startled, I realize that she's right. I had been so busy sifting through my shock and despair over Katniss volunteering that I had forgotten there even was another tribute. Then I remember that whoever is chosen will be an enemy of Katniss. Him and twenty two other tributes. My mind is racing. Katniss is smart enough to avoid most of the tributes, but the Careers will pose a definite threat. She'll either have to hide from them or fight them. Hiding would be the better option. She's small and quick, which is both an asset and a hindrance when it comes to fighting. The Careers are almost always tall, muscular and altogether lethal. They'll be her biggest obstacle. That, and the arena itself. What will it be this year? A forest would be ideal, but who knows if there will even be wood.

I focus on my immediate surroundings again in time to see that Effie has already pulled a slip from the boys' bowl. She doesn't hesitate for effect this time, but opens the folded piece of paper and unceremoniously reads, "Peeta Mellark."

Heads turn to look at me as I register what she said. Peeta Mellark. Me. I've been reaped. I start towards the stage, because I know I'm supposed to, but my mind isn't connected to my body anymore. My steps are stiff but steady, and I climb the stairs slowly and take my place in front of the glass bowl. Effie asks for volunteers, but I know there won't be any. Sand is too old, and Rye cares about me, but... not _that_ much. I don't blame him.

The mayor taps a small pile of papers and clears his throat before reading, "In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen…"

He goes on, and I turn my head to look at Katniss, only to find that her eyes are already on me. We stare at each other, not daring to do anything else, and in her eyes I see the numbness that I feel.

The mayor finishes and Effie prompts, "Well, go on, you two. Shake hands."

_Shake hands-_ as if we're just meeting each other. It doesn't feel right. Even so, I take Katniss's bony, scarred hand in mine and give it a firm shake. And then, because this reaping is already a year of firsts for District Twelve, I use my other arm to pull her into a quick hug. She allows it, briefly resting her forehead on my shoulder before stepping away, and the crowd draws a collective breath. Like the volunteer and the silent salute, this is unprecedented.

The anthem plays, Peacekeepers steer us into the Justice Building, and the doors close with chilling finality.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is in Peeta's point of view again. I know, I know, I'm sorry. I really will be doing alternate Katniss/Peeta POVs most of the time, but for now, it's Peeta's turn to narrate. You'll get Katniss soon enough.**

**Enjoy, my lovely readers!**

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**~Peeta POV~**

The rooms they put us in are startlingly luxurious. At least, mine is, and I assume Katniss's is very similar. The carpet is deep and soft, so much so that I want to kneel and run my fingers through it. But I don't. I sit hunched over on the edge of a velvet chair, staring at my white knuckles. There's a sharp, staccato rhythm coming from somewhere near me, and when I glance down I realize it's the toe of my left shoe tapping against the leg of the chair. I plant both feet firmly on the floor and draw myself up until I'm sitting straight. I take three deep breaths. Then three more. I'm still shaking.

_What am I going to do?_

The door opens with a click- a tiny sound, and yet the loudest thing in the room. I turn sharply to see my father step in, followed by first Rye and then Sand. My mother comes last, barely slipping through the door before the Peacekeeper on the other side closes it. She hovers near the door, a scowl deepening the lines around her eyes. She looks impatient, as if she'd rather be on her way home than stopping to visit me. Though her attitude stings, it doesn't surprise me.

My focus is drawn away from her as my father sinks into the chair next to me. He clasps my knee, blue eyes peering into mine. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. What could he say that I don't already know? _I'll miss you? I'm proud of you? I know you won't come back?_

He extends a hand to me, and that's when I see the little, paper bag. I know without asking that it contains at least three of the cookies he decorated himself just this morning. I shake my head. "Give them to her."

He nods and tucks them into his coat. Just like I didn't need to ask what was in the bag, he doesn't need to ask who I'm talking about. We're good like that.

My mother is another matter. "_Her_? Her, who? You can't mean that Seam girl." She gives a light scoff.

Rye takes a breath, as if to say something, then decides against it, closing his mouth. He repeats the action several seconds later, and then once more, and finally manages, "Be careful."

"I will be." My own voice sounds strange, and I wonder if it's because of my closing throat or my ringing ears.

Sand steps over to give me a quick, jostling hug, which is perhaps the most affection I've seen from him in years. He quickly lets go and looks at me strangely, as if not sure what to say. My throat feels swollen, and I swallow hard. I'm close to crying, and I know everyone can see it, but I don't care. The situation allows for some tears, I think. My father seems to think so, too. I feel one of his own tears fall on the back of my neck as he pulls me into a hug, much fiercer than Sand's. I hug him back, and it's like I'm a little boy again, climbing onto Dad's lap for comfort after my mother hits me. He would always put aside whatever he was doing and hold me, murmuring that she didn't mean it, and that it was going to be okay. By the time he pulls away, more than one tear has made a path down my cheek.

My mother, still standing stiffly by the door, looks contemplative. "Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner," she says, and I look at her incredulously.

Did she really just say she thinks I have a chance? I don't, really. In order for me to survive, Katniss would have to die. Still, I can't believe the words of _almost-praise_ left her mouth.

Then she goes on. "She's a survivor, that one."

Of course. She wasn't talking about me, she was talking about Katniss. Mother has always hated Katniss. According to her, Katniss was a good-for-nothing Seam urchin, and anytime Mother opened the door and she was on the other side, she'd chase her away with many a harsh word. And she still rates her over me, her own son.

My father is gently admonishing her about her choice of words, and I almost wish he wouldn't. That's my mother's opinion on me, and even if she hadn't said anything just now, she's made it perfectly clear over the years. Telling her to be more understanding won't fix anything. I want to scream at her, ask her why she never cared, shake her by the shoulders until she tells me why she hates me so much. But, that won't solve anything, either. I settle for clenching my jaw and staring fixedly at the ceiling.

A Peacekeeper is at the door, telling my family it's time to go, and Mother walks out right away, mumbling something about wasting time. Sand follows her with his head down, and Rye gives me a wobbly, transparent smile before he leaves, too. My father pauses and gives me the same soul-searching look he did when he came in. The Peacekeeper calls for him to leave once, twice, three times, and he still doesn't move. At last, just when the Peacekeeper takes a step forward, as if to remove my father by force, he turns away and walks out the door. I drop my face into my hands, struggling with my uneven breaths.

My next visitor is Delly. My childhood friend looks like she's been crying more than I have, and her whole body is flushed, from face to arms to neck. She launches herself into my arms and wails. I pat her back, and after a while, she lets me out of her vice-like grip and collapses into a chair, sniffling. I haven't seen her today, before this, and now I take her in. A pink, flower-printed dress slims her unfortunately lumpy figure, and her hay-colored hair has been pulled up in two short pigtails behind her ears. It looks like she may have been wearing some of her mother's powder on her cheeks, at one point, but wet tracks have all but erased it.

"P-p-promise you'll come home," she tremors.

"I'll try," I promise, because, while neither can really be true, this is at least a half so. I will try my best to survive, so I don't leave Katniss alone in the arena, but I won't be coming home. I can't explain this to my cheerful, hopeful, overzealous friend. She wouldn't understand. Delly's no idiot, and I'm not saying she is, but she wouldn't be able to grasp my acceptance of my own end. She's too light-hearted for that. She'd insist that there was a way to… What? We can't both win. Most likely, we'll both die.

She pulls me from my thoughts with a whispered, "You're strong. You could do it."

"Sure I could." I thumb her cheek, wiping away tear streaks and drawing a small smile from her lips. "I'll try. You'll see."

The smile vanishes, and suddenly her pale, pale blue eyes, the color of sun-lightened forget-me-not petals, gaze up into mine. Usually so happy and blithe, they now seem jarringly old and wise. "You're going to protect her, aren't you?"

Slowly, I nod. Delly's known about my crush on Katniss since elementary school, when we became friends, so it doesn't surprise me that she would come to this conclusion. What does surprise me is the fresh flow of tears that spill over her pale lower lashes and down her cheeks. She hugs me again, her strong, nimble shoemaker's fingers twining into the fabric of the back of my shirt, and I know that she guesses what I'm going to do. Maybe she does understand, after all. "I'll keep an eye on her little sister at school," she whimpers. "And I'll make sure Rye doesn't do anything too stupid."

I smile weakly. Even coming from short, mostly helpless Delly, this is a relief to hear. "Thanks."

When she pulls back, she reaches into the pocket of her dress, producing a coarse, woven bracelet made out of thin strips of leather and a few dull buttons threaded on at odd intervals. I recognize it. It's the bracelet we made together as children, one damp day on the floor of Delly's kitchen. It was too cold and wet to go play outside, so our hopes of using our new sticks of chalk were dashed. Instead we were shooed into the kitchen by Mrs. Cartwright and given scraps of fabric and leather to play with. Above the vague, far-off sound of thunder, the _tap-tap-tapping_ of Mr. Cartwright's shoe hammer echoed through the building. Delly made a little doll out of the discarded pieces of material, and I tied one scrap into a circle and put it on her head as a crown. This gave her an idea and, giggling, she took up three long, slender strips of leather and braided them together while I occasionally slid buttons onto one of the strands. It had started out to be a necklace, but ended up too short, so we said it was a bracelet. At the time, it was far too large to fit around either of our wrists without falling off. It's still too large for Delly. But, as I discover when she deftly ties it around my wrist, it's an all right fit for me.

"Do you have a district token?" she asks quietly, making a valiant attempt at keeping her voice steady.

"No." I haven't even thought about it.

She releases my hand. "Then you can use this. If you want."

I run my fingers over the little piece of home, and I can feel my face heating up with tears all over again. "Thank you, Delly." It seems I'm full of _thank-you_s today.

Then the door opens and she's summoned away. She catches at my hand one last time, choking, "Goodbye… brother." Then she flees from the room. The last I see of her is the hem of her pink skirt flicking around the doorframe.

It's somewhat of a joke between us, now. Saying we're siblings. Delly used to go around telling everyone I was her brother when she was a chubby, rosy-cheeked little girl with tangled, stringy hair and always a new pair of little, shiny shoes. That stopped when we were about twelve, but we still joke about it. This doesn't feel like a joke, though. More like a promise, or… a goodbye.

I don't have time to let the new tears fall, because the door opens once again, unexpectedly. I look up, straight into a pair of grey eyes. Grey like Katniss's. But, not quite like. These eyes are a duller, harder gray, like hammered steel as opposed to Katniss's silver-moonlight ones. These eyes are set in a serious, square-jawed face, underneath ruffled hair the deepest shade of brown, almost black. It's Gale Hawthorn.

He begins almost before the door shuts behind him. "Listen, Mellark, if you so much as touch her I will make you sorry you were ever born."

"I would never," I vow, but he's not done.

"If you contribute to her death or harm in any way, or stand by while she's harmed, you'll more than regret it. And if, somehow, you manage to make it home after doing that, you won't get two steps off the train. Understand?"

I nod, making sure I'm making eye contact, and say clearly, "I understand. But I would never hurt Katniss. Not ever."

His gaze travels from my head to my toes, maybe looking for weaknesses. Or, maybe, determining if I'm a threat. At last, he gives a curt nod. "All right. But I meant what I said."

I incline my head the slightest bit. "I have no doubt."

He turns to leave, but stops when his hand rests on the doorknob. "Take care of her." It isn't quite an order, and it isn't quite a request. "Since I won't be able to."

I hear it, then. Gale Hawthorn's impenetrable barrier has slipped, and just for a moment, I hear the agony in his voice. And I know how much it hurts him to let this happen- to let his best friend, and who-knows-what besides that, go into the arena without him there to protect her. Then the wall comes up again, and he's back to menacingly businesslike.

"I'd say 'good luck', but, with no offense intended, I don't really want you to have it."

"Trust me," I reply dryly, "I'll be saving all my luck for Katniss."

Apparently my answer is satisfactory, because he smiles grimly before departing.

In the time before I'm escorted back outside, I mull over my last visitor. Gale knows Katniss and I are together. He might not be too happy with it- in fact, at one time he straight-up told Katniss to stay away from me, and vice-versa- but he knows. I don't know if Katniss and Gale have ever been anything more than friends. Maybe. I usually try not to dwell on it, but now my mind skips ahead of me. If Katniss wins, and goes home, she'll live with her mother and Prim in the Victor's Village. But, what about when she's older? She deserves a family, and if she was a Victor, she would certainly be able to support one. No fear of her loved ones starving. Would she have a family with Gale? I shy away from the thought, jealousy bubbling unpleasantly inside me, but I tell myself firmly that it's what's best for her. I won't be there to protect her, and Gale will. It makes sense. Still, the thought burns an icy path through me, and I push it away for another time. There's lots to think about before that time comes, after all. Lots to do.

A shiny, squat car waits for us right outside the Justice Building. The crowds have mostly dispersed, by now, and I can't see any cameras. That doesn't mean they aren't there. They could be hidden, or lurking around a corner, or planted inside the car. Cameras or not, I don't try to hide my tear-streaked face. My skin in still flushed. It's very obvious I've been crying, but I don't care. Let people see. What have I to lose?

Katniss emerges from the building seconds after I do, fiddling with something on her dress, and instantly comes to lean against me. I slide an arm around her, supporting her, as we walk to the car. It looks a lot like a big, black beetle, the way it sits low on its tires and shines, glossy, in the sunlight. I go ahead of the rest of our small, quiet group and open the door for Effie. May as well start to make an impression now.

Tittering, Effie accepts my hand and lowers herself onto the black, leather seat. "Well, aren't you a dear?" she says fondly, smoothing her skirt. I wait until she's arranged her dress around her ankles before closing the door and going around to Katniss.

"You going to open my door for me?" she jokes with a smile that quickly falls back into a tired frown.

"Why, of course," I say, bowing exaggeratedly. I then open the door and take her hand, guiding her into the seat. She rolls her eyes at me and scoots to the opposite window, slouching against the seat in the most unladylike way possible. Only now do I see that the thing she was fiddling with is a small, golden pin adorned with a bird in flight. I don't remember seeing it on her before. Maybe one of her visitors gave it to her. I glance down at the woven bracelet as I climb into the last seat.

The car windows are tinted. From the outside, the interior is a vague, dark reflection. From the inside, the world is dimmed, but visible. I wonder why this is. Surely it would be easier for the cameras to get good footage if they could see through the car windows. Then, as the driver pulls at a couple of levers and the car starts down the road with a jolt, I see Effie fanning herself frantically with a little, lacy, neon-pink fan, and I realize that the tint is to keep the sun, and its heat, out of the car. I wonder, if this luxury is afforded to the car transporting us to the train, which will transport us to the Capitol, what can we expect in the Capitol itself?

Katniss slides toward me, not bothering with the buckle Effie is attempting to point out to her, and once again leans into me. She nudges at me until I lift my arm so she can burrow against my side. Her silvery eyes glint up at me and she tilts her head a fraction of an inch. A question. Probably, _Were you crying?_ Or, maybe, _Are you okay?_ I give a noncommittal shrug. She frowns and turns her head to look forward. Both of her arms curl around one of mine.

"Well," Effie trills from the front of the car. "Don't you two seem… close."

I glance at Katniss, raising my eyebrows. Whether we tell people about our relationship is up to her. Heaven knows, I would be fine with it. More than fine. I would announce it to the world if I was given the chance. I would love to show her off- to say, _Look at this beauty and power. Look at this radiant, wild, strong creature. And she's_ _mine. _But Katniss is another story. She's secretive and quiet. She doesn't like attention. I know she would be happy living her whole life completely unnoticed by anyone and everyone except those closest to her. She gnaws on her bottom lip, then gives a tiny shrug, mirroring mine from a moment ago.

"Yes," I answer simply. "We know each other."

"Isn't that nice." Effie twists around in her seat to face us more fully. Her eyes glitter, like a great, pink bird of prey about to swoop down upon its dinner. "Are you related?"

"No."

The sparkle in her eyes grows in intensity. She's found something gossip-worthy. "Are you a couple?"

Once again, I look to Katniss, who is rubbing her eyes wearily. After a moment, she mutters, "May as well."

I turn back to a puzzled Effie. "Yes."

"Oh," she sighs, clasping her hands beside her face. Her bright pink lips form an exaggerated circle as she draws out the word in her ridiculous Capitol accent. "How romantic."

"Yes," Katniss grumbles, "Romantic that we're going into the Games together. How absolutely heartwarming."

Apparently not picking up on her sarcasm, Effie moves her hands to press them over her heart. "I know! It's so tragic. Like Romeo and Juliet."

Katniss barely waits until Effie has turned back around to twist her face into a disgusted sneer. She mouths, _Is she serious?_

I drop my head and whisper into her hair. "Better get used to it. You know how the Capitol is."

She shudders.

I'm starting to wonder just what I've gotten myself into. Hugging Katniss onstage, telling Effie we're together- I could have stood on my head and sang the Panem national anthem at the top of my lungs, and it wouldn't have brought nearly as much attention to me. Us. It's a very rare occurrence for tributes to know each other at all. Even when they do, any friendship ties are cut the moment their names are called at the reaping. It's every man for himself. There have been alliances in the arena, of course, but nothing like this. At least, not that I know of.

We arrive at the train station and Katniss closes her eyes. When they open, her face is impassive once again. I can't say the same for myself. The crush of reporters, cameras, Peacekeepers and various other Capitol fixtures overwhelms me. Effie hops out of the car, pulling us after her, and all but runs to the train. With small, ladylike steps, of course. She then positions us just inside the train doors, telling us to smile and striking poses. The camera flashes are so rapid that my eyes don't have time to adjust, so I'm pretty much blind by the time we're finally allowed to retreat into the train. The doors close with a loud hiss and a snap, and the train starts to move the moment they seal shut. I have to place a hand on the wall to steady myself as it accelerates. And accelerates. And accelerates. I'm just thinking that the train will keep on going faster and faster until it flies right off the tracks when Effie speaks up.

"Now then. Miss Everdeen, your room is down here, and Mr. Mellark, yours is just a bit further down the hall. I know. I know!" She chatters at us as we gawk at the finery we're surrounded by. Delicate, multi-patterned wallpaper, deep carpet and tables heavy with more food than I've ever seen in one place, even the bakery. Chandeliers sway gently from the ceiling, casting little chips of light dancing and spinning across the walls. Shimmering silk curtains are pulled back to reveal the green and gray blur of District Twelve's outskirts. Flowers everywhere, and roses in every bouquet. Crystal, ivory, mahogany, gold. If this train was broken apart and its contents sold, the money could support every person in our district for a decade. Saying I'm blown away would not even begin to cover it.

We reach Katniss's door, which has a silver-edged **F** engraved in the wood. Effie opens it for her and I get a glimpse of a purple and red bedroom, smothered in luxurious fabrics and vases of Capitol-bright flowers and elegant pieces of furniture. She cheerfully points out the doors that lead to the dressing room- whoever heard of a room used only for getting dressed? – and the bathroom. She then slides open one drawer of the dresser. Layers and layers of clothes of different colors and fabrics are stacked inside.

"Do anything you want," she sings, "Wear anything you want, everything is at your disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour."

Can that be right? It seems like I just ate lunch. But then, it also seems like lunch time was a long, long time ago. Strange.

I'm shown to my room, which has an **M** on the door. Maybe the letters mean _female_ tribute and _male_ tribute. My room is just as luxurious as Katniss's, and I spend the next hour wandering around in a sort of daze and staring first out the window, then at the objects around me. I dare not even sit on the bed, for fear of ruining the painfully perfect, wrinkle-free, folded-down blankets and carefully arranged pillows.

Effie knocks on my door to tell me it's time for dinner, and I make my way to the dining car. On my way, I pass Haymitch. He carries a bottle of clear liquid in one hand and a powdery cookie in the other. He takes a gulp of the liquid and takes one bite out of the cookie. Then he tosses the rest of the cookie over his shoulder and grunts irritably, tipping the bottle again.

"Aren't you coming to dinner?" I ask.

"'M takin' a nap," he barks, stumbling down the narrow hallway. I step aside to let him pass, trying not to wrinkle my nose at his strong scent. Once at the dining car, I choose a chair and sit down in front of a plate of china so thin I think it would break if I so much as picked it up. The rest of the dishes are the same way, and the utensils must be silver. I wonder how I'll be able to eat with them, without constantly being afraid of breaking something.

Katniss and Effie come in a moment later. Katniss is no longer wearing her blue dress. Her hair is still up in its braided crown, but it looks damp. She must have taken a shower. The golden pin is fastened onto a loose, dark green shirt. It glints in the light of the chandelier as she sits down next to me, and I resolve to ask her about it later. Something about that little bird holds my eyes. Something about the position of its wings. It seems to be saying, _I'm flying. I'm free. You can't contain me._ I can easily imagine the miniscule beak snapping, the tiny feathers fluttering. I can easily imagine the bird lifting off the ring and soaring into the air, small as my thumbnail yet defiant as the wind. That little bird was designed to be free.

I can only wish the same for Katniss.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello!**

**I'll admit it, this one is mostly straight-from-the-book dialogue, guys. Sorry. I promise it'll get vastly different in the next few chapters, but for now, we're still on the tribute train. :/ **

**As always, everything belongs to the lovely Suzanne. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**~Katniss POV~**

Dinner consists of a series of courses, each heavier than the last, and by the end I'm feeling a bit like I swallowed a boulder. The food is richer than anything I've had before, and my stomach is rebelling. I wonder if this is why Haymitch skipped dinner- all the alcohol in his system couldn't have reacted well with the food. Or, maybe he was just too drunk to walk to the dining compartment.

"Well," Effie says, setting her silverware down with a faint clink. "Now that we've all finished dinner, it's time to go watch the recaps. It's just this way. Come on, now- come on, or we'll be late!"

We make our way through a sliding door and into a compartment furnished entirely in deep, blood red and midnight blue. On one wall, silver-framed windows give us a view of the dark countryside, all featureless black and gray. A leather couch rests under them, and this is where Peeta and I settle ourselves as Effie pokes at the large television on the opposite wall. It flares to life and she sits daintily at the edge of a cushion. Peeta squeezes my hand and slides one of his calves between mine as the recaps begin.

The reapings of districts one through ten are a blur. The tributes are all very much the same- either monstrous, muscled Careers or frightened, malnourished children. The few that stand out in my mind only do so because Peeta points them out.

On District Two: "We'll have to keep an eye on him."

On District Five: "That's unusual. You don't see red hair very often."

On District Ten: "What a shame… He'll have trouble enough with that leg."

He rarely gets a response from either of us, but I know that he's trying to keep up a conversation, even if it's one-sided. Trying to keep the stifling stillness at bay. To distract me, when all I can think of is, _Which one of you will I have to kill? Which one of you will kill me?_

It comes time for District Eleven's tributes, and I focus back on the screen just in time to watch a slight, willowy girl walk to the stage. She's so much like Prim that, for a moment, my throat tightens, but then I swallow and give myself a little shake. _Prim is fine. She's at home, safe, with Mom. And Gale will look after her for me. _

My shaky reassurances don't make a dent in my sudden anxiety. I want to wrench open the door of the train, sprint home and gather her up in my arms. The thought that I won't be there for her anymore… Who will sing to her when she's sick and rock her when she has nightmares? Who'll help her with her homework? Bring her little presents on her birthday? Braid her hair in the morning? Walk with her past the bakery so she can see the cakes? Gale will feed and clothe her, yes, but will he think of these things? He's busy enough with his own siblings as it is. Mom might be adequate, for now, but who knows how long that will last? She could slip away as soon as she witnesses my televised death, and then Prim will be left by herself in our cold, bare house. The image sends claws digging into my heart, twisting it viciously in separate directions.

By now, District Eleven's male tribute has been called- a tall, sturdy, hulking boy named Thresh- and Peeta turns to me to make a comment. His expression immediately morphs to concern and he takes my face in his hands. "Katniss," he murmurs. It's not quite a question and not quite an exclamation.

Now that his hands are steadying me, warm and gentle and entirely covering the sides of my head, I can feel how badly I'm shaking. There's an ache in my chest, as if those claws twisting my heart are real. Peeta's blue, blue eyes peer down at me, overflowing with worry.

"What's wrong?"

I look at him reproachfully. _What's wrong? _What's not?

But at last I do answer him. "Prim."

He glances at Effie, who's watching us intently while trying to appear as if she's not, before snaking his arms around my waist and pulling me onto his lap. He doesn't say a thing, but holds me tightly, running his hand repeatedly over my hair. I lean into him. At the other end of the sofa, Effie sighs something about, "So romantic," but, for the moment, we both ignore her. We're silent as we watch ourselves being reaped.

Prim's name is read, loudly and clearly. I throw myself in front of her. For all my efforts to hide my emotions, this moment shows _everything_. My horror, my desperation, my determination. It's all there on my face, and in my actions. As I go up on stage, the commentators are having the time of their lives dissecting my motives to volunteer.

"She put herself in her sister's place," one says, a hand resting on her unnaturally ample bosom, where her heart would be if her Capitol alterations hadn't gone a bit overboard. If Capitol people _had_ a heart. "It's like something out of a fairytale."

"Yes, yes," the second commentator agrees. "I think we should keep an eye on this one, don't you think? Any volunteer in an outlying district is unusual, no matter the circumstances."

They have plenty to say about me. But they're not sure how to spin District Twelve's silent salute. At last, the large-chested lady stutters, "Well, um, Twelve has always been a bit backwards, after all, but local customs can be quite charming!"

Haymitch takes his tumble off the stage. Both commentators groan.

"Everyone has their off days," the man offers.

_Yeah, _I think dryly. _Off days… Off months… Off decades._

And then Peeta's name is drawn. I study my face onscreen carefully, searching for a reaction. My eyes widen, but I quickly force myself back into impassiveness. Good. This, at least, is something I kept under control.

Our brief but unexpected embrace sends the commentators into near hysteria. They shriek, accents thickening until they're barely intelligible, and wave their hands in the air. A sparkling beaded bracelet flies off the woman's wrist as she gestures wildly, babbling at top speed, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Effie pipes up. "You know, technically, all that is allowed is a handshake." Her eyes sparkle. "However… I think an exception can be made for you two. It is so very traumatic, after all." Yet another sigh rises from her throat as she clasps her hands beside her face- something she's been doing almost constantly since the car ride.

I digest this piece of information. The rules can be bent for us. Because we're something new. We're entertaining. People- or, at least Effie- are willing to amend tradition in order to witness this never-before-seen set of events. My mind tucks this away for later, when I can analyze the possibilities somewhere quiet.

Effie is still going strong. "The cameras are going to love you two. They already do!" A small frown pinches her features. "Your mentor is a different story. Haymitch has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

Peeta laughs, and, huddled to his chest as I am, I can feel it shake us both. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

"Every day," I add.

Effie's demeanor shifts from stern to sinister in a heartbeat. "Yes. How odd you two find it amusing. You know that your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts."

The change in her manner is startling, and even more so is the realization that _she's right_. Haymitch will be the one pulling all the strings while the Games are in session. And, from what we've seen so far, he's in no state to do so.

"Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!" She finishes shrilly, jumping up and backing towards the door.

She's knocked out of the way as the door swings open, admitting a barely-upright Haymitch. He blinks at us with bloodshot eyes, and my heart sinks. It's as if fate knew what I was thinking and decided to prove it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"I miss supper?" he slurs. Then he lurches forward, coughs up a stomachful of half-digested liquor, and sprawls to the ground.

Effie skips to the side, holding her flounced skirts up out of harm's way, and tosses a, "So laugh away!" over her shoulder. Then she's gone, leaving me and Peeta still entwined on the couch and Haymitch scrabbling on the vomit-slick carpet.

Peeta glances at me, then carefully sets me on the couch next to him and stands up. I follow, reluctantly, covering my nose and mouth with one arm. I'm not worrying about it offending our mentor- by the looks of it, he won't remember any of this by tomorrow.

As we approach, Haymitch finally succeeds in sitting up. "I tripped?" he says blearily. "Smells bad."

I look away for a moment as he drags a hand across his face, leaving a streak of vomit on his cheek. Blood, I can handle. I deal with blood all the time, from the game I kill and prepare. I can even handle human blood, albeit to a lesser degree. But anything else that comes from the human body, including vomit, leaves my own stomach rolling uncomfortably.

Peeta is talking to Haymitch, trying to convince him to move, I think, but at last it takes both of us to shift him. We grip him under the arms and make our way resignedly towards his room, which is conveniently marked with a bronze plaque stamped with the word _Mentor_. There are other, similar doors along the compartment, but all of them are empty. Haymitch has been Twelve's only mentor for years. And that's not likely to change any time soon.

At my suggestion, we deposit him in the shower, where Peeta says, "It's okay. I'll take it from here."

I nod, relieved and still a little queasy, and turn to leave. Then I think better of it and nip back for a quick kiss. "Thank you," I say. "See you after?"

"Yeah."

Back in the brightly lit hallway, I take a deep breath. I can still smell the alcohol, but maybe that's just because I'm right outside Haymitch's room. I need something to settle my stomach.

_Just water,_ I decide, setting off to find one of the Capitol attendants that seem to drift in and out of doors every couple of seconds. But now, they've all but vanished, and I end up just returning to my room and sitting on the end of the bed, running my fingers over the embroidered satin. My eyes land on the white paper bag on the dresser, next to my mother's crumpled blue dress. Mr. Mellark's cookies.

It was a surprise when Peeta's father came to visit me. He didn't say much, but I could tell he was sad. That Peeta was going into the Games, probably. That _we_ were. I open the bag and lift out one powdery, delicate sugar cookie. It dissolves almost instantly when I bite into it, leaving a crumbly, sweet substance on my tongue. It reminds me of that time spent in the bakery, when our house caught fire and my family was left temporarily homeless. Peeta's family took us in, of course, until we found a new house to stay in. During those short months, Mrs. Mellark was gone, visiting her sister at the far end of District Twelve, and Mr. Mellark transformed into a new man. He was merry and red-cheeked, showering Prim and I with treats. Treats like the cookie in my hand.

My thoughts swirl dizzyingly around home, Prim, my mother, the bakery, Haymitch, Peeta, the train, the Games… Everything. At last, exhausted, I peel off my shirt and pants and slide into bed, pulling the comforter up over my ears. And as the train rocks me to sleep, the taste of the suagar cookie lingers in my mouth.

* * *

"Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

Never were the crows outside our window as annoying as Effie Trinket is at this moment.

I groan and press the heels of my hands over my eyes. What little sleep I got last night was punctuated by unsettling, drawn-out dreams of trains, reaping bowls and bottles of alcohol. I shrug back into my clothes from yesterday and slump to the kitchen. Haymitch and Peeta are already there.

Haymitch, the aftereffects of the alcohol plain on his face, waves me over. "Sit down! Sit down!"

I perch on the edge of the chair next to Peeta and an attendant sets a gigantic platter of food in front of me. There's enough on my plate alone, not to mention the rest of the table- the rest of the room- to feed my entire family, and Gale's, and the livestock, for a week or more. I just stare at it, unable to do anything else, until Peeta speaks up.

"Where did you disappear off to last night?"

"Huh?" I manage to tear my eyes away from a particularly delectable-looking bowl of sugar-crusted, steaming blueberry muffins. "Oh. Um. My room."

"I figured that." Peeta picks at a jumble of little, round slices of fruit. Dewy watermelon, the seeds like dark gems in the vivid red flesh. Honey-drizzled apple. Blueberries, plump and misted with tiny drops of water. Oranges, cut in slivers and arranged prettily. Some fruits I don't even recognize. "After I looked around and couldn't find you anywhere else."

"Sorry. I forgot." Distracted, I poke at a mug- more of a bowl, really- and watch the creamy, brown contents ripple. "What's this?"

"They call it hot chocolate. It's good."

I take one small sip, which I immediately follow up with several large gulps. It really is _hot chocolate_. And milk, probably. And it's the best thing I've ever tasted.

Someone refills my mug and I drain it again, earning a quiet, "Geez, Katniss," from Peeta. Only once the cup is empty do I even look at the food on my plate.

It's awfully quiet. I shovel forkfuls of fluffy eggs and crisp, meaty bacon into my mouth, stuffing myself. Peeta dips pieces of a light bread into his hot chocolate. Haymitch nurses a cup of spiked cranberry juice. Well. Cups.

At last I put down my fork. "So," I say to Haymitch, "You're supposed to give us advice."

An ugly smirk twists his lips. "Here's some advice. Stay alive." He throws his head back and starts laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, some of the liquid sloshing out of his cup.

The voice that speaks is so cold I don't recognize it for a moment. "That's very funny."

Then that cup goes flying. It bursts into a million sparkling, razor-sharp chips of glass and the liquid spatters everything within a three-foot radius. I look to Peeta in shock. I've seen him mad before, but… Never this mad. He's never lashed out.

"Only not to us."

Haymitch, serious now that his drink is gone, looks at Peeta intently. His fist flashes out, startlingly fast for someone so out of shape, and I stifle a shriek as it makes contact with Peeta's jaw. Haymitch's hand moves towards yet another bottle. I feel the cool, smooth weight of the butter knife, still resting in my left hand. The blade strikes the table not a centimeter from Haymitch's fingers before I quite know what I'm doing. My lips are drawn back, exposing my upper teeth. I have no doubt that, if I had ears like a cat or a dog, they'd be plastered against my skull.

_Don't touch him,_ I silently growl. _Don't you ever touch him again.__  
_

Haymitch seems unperturbed by the knife that almost took off his finger. He leans back, eyebrows lifting. "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" His gaze flicks to Peeta and he says, "No. Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

Peeta lets the ice in his hand fall back into the fruit tureen, frowning. "That's against the rules."

"Only if they catch you."

_Story of my life,_ I think, but I'm still glowering at Haymitch.

"That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better. Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" The last comment is directed at me.

I choose a target and pretend it's Haymitch's hand. Or, better yet, his precious liquor bottle. With a rare stroke of luck, the knife sticks in a seam in the wall paneling, sinking to the hilt. I allow a small smile to flicker across my features.

Haymitch considers this for a moment before he barks, "Stand over here. Both of you." He examines us, then shrugs and says, "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get a hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

He steps back, and his gaze fixes on our hands, which have somehow gravitated to each other and twined together since we stood up. Something like cunning flashes in his expression, but he quickly suppresses it and goes on.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

"Fine," Peeta spits. He's still angry. That makes two of us.

To distract us both, I say, "So help us. When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"

"One thing at a time." Haymitch falls back into his chair and swipes the bottle off the table, taking a short swig from it. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you."

I share a glance with Peeta, loathsome possibilities running through my mind.

"But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But-"

"No buts. Don't resist."

With those parting words, he saunters out of the room. Peeta lets the breath whistle through his teeth.

"I don't like him either," I mutter, answering his unspoken curse. I pick up a circle of melon with my fingers and pop it in my mouth, even though I don't have much of an appetite. Not after my enormous breakfast, and certainly not after our discussion with Haymitch.

The train goes through a tunnel, which makes my hands shake and my heart pick up speed, and Peeta and I settle ourselves back at the table, not eating, just staring at the window. Beyond the glass is a vague plane of darkness. It's impossible to tell how far away the tunnel wall is. If I opened the window and reached out, could I touch it? Would it be beyond my reach- or just millimeters from the glass? Would it be rough-hewn, or unnaturally smooth, like the shiny counters in my bathroom? Would it be wet? Would it leave a layer of slime on my fingers? An image of coal-blackened fingernails presents itself to me and I shudder.

Abruptly, the darkness gives way to a blinding surge of light.

We've reached the Capitol.

Both of us dash to the window to take it in. It hurts my eyes. The colors are all too bright. Not naturally bright- not bright like the meadow is in the height of Spring- but bright like something poisonous. Electric orange and blue, like the venomous snake-mutt that was once pictured in our history book at school. Pink like Effie's wig, but somehow, impossibly worse. Radioactive green. They're candy colors, but there's nothing sweet about this place.

Peeta takes one of my hands again, but I pull away sharply. "No," I hiss, "Someone could see."

"That's the point."

He picks up my hand again, this time by the wrist, and moves it back and forth in a jerky pendulum motion. It takes me a moment to realize what he's doing. Waving. He lets go, and I scowl as I continue the motion.

"What exactly am I doing?"

In response, he points out the window. Startlingly close, a crowd of people just as bright as their city- how did I not see them before? – gawk at us, pushing against roped-off boundaries and rising on tiptoes to get a glimpse of the tribute train. Some of them are waving enthusiastically, blowing kisses, shouting things I can't make out through the thick train walls.

"Who knows?" he says to me while never taking his eyes off the candy-Capitol crowd. "One of them may be rich."

Peeta grins, waving both of his own hands, and then I know. I know what he's doing. It's not just waving. It's certainly not saying _hello_. Peeta is already fighting.

I put on my best fake smile, hoping it's half as convincing as Peeta's, and wave with renewed vigor. I even make eye contact with a few of the people the train crawls past. If Peeta's fighting, so am I.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello again, lovely readers!**

**I wrote this whole thing listening to the HG soundtrack (guess which songs! XD ).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**~Peeta POV~**

My prep team is like a trio of exotic birds- colorful, loud, eccentric and clueless. They chatter constantly in their noisy Capitol accent about parties they're going to and what color is "in". Peppitra is the one talking at the moment. She's a pixy-like woman with short, metallic silver-and-gold hair, a delicate trail of bronze butterfly tattoos running from wrist to neck and flowing, black, silver-accented clothes. Everything about her is some shade of gold, silver, bronze or black, and her whole body has a lustrous quality, like she took a bath in ground-up pearls and moonlight. Her skin, icy pale and dotted with flecks of gold, gives off a very faint shine, and her eyes are rings of hard bronze. The result is a startlingly intense gaze, coming from such a dainty wisp of a person.

"And, I swear, there was confetti _everywhere,_" she pipes, gesturing with one hand as she rubs a coarsely bristled brush over my arm with the other. It takes a layer of skin with it and leaves behind a dull stinging. "Simply everywhere! Of course, it got ground into the carpet by everyone's shoes- it took _weeks_ to get it out- had to use a paper disintegrator- hand me the lotion, Xanden- it was _so_ expensive!"

Xanden obediently gives her the palm-sized tube of shimmering, pink goop. I get the feeling that Xanden is really more of an assistant, or a student. He mostly watches what the other two do, standing quietly until someone asks him to do something. However, that doesn't make up for the explosion that is his outfit. He wears yellow- and that's it. Ranging from mustard to off-white, his clothing looks as if someone attacked it with buckets of yellow paint of all shades and the resulting stains never washed out. Even his hair is sunflower yellow. In fact, it's arranged very much like a sunflower, too, forming a kind of half-halo around his head, behind his ears.

I turn away from Xanden, since his outfit is starting to hurt my eyes, and my gaze lands on the last member of my prep team. Glitterspell. She's a distant cousin of one of the other tributes this year, apparently, and is thrilled to let everyone know. She talks nonstop about it- as if she's related to a celebrity. Which, in a way, I suppose she is.

Her name describes her pretty well. She's a tall, curvy, _glittery_ brunette- or, at least, I'm guessing she's a brunette, based on the roots of her hair. The rest of it is plastered down with a thick layer of something bright green and sparkly. Her arms and legs have what look like tiny jewels running up them in swirl patterns, so when the light hits her just right, she transforms into a human kaleidoscope, her skin and clothes giving off sparks of multi-colored neon light. The overall effect is excessively flashy, almost ugly.

She seems to think just the opposite. Every time her arms glitter in the beam of the overhead lamp, which casts us in a harsh circle of white light, she preens, flicking her wrists and tossing her gleaming hair over her shoulder. Of the three, she's the most pretentious. She's the one I would rather not have touching me with her glitter-crusted talons.

But I stay quiet. I don't even flinch when Glitterspell takes a heaping handful of slimy soap and starts rubbing it vigorously into my scalp. I do exactly as Haymitch said: I don't resist.

I wonder, as Peppitra starts sawing off my nails with a small stick of sandpaper, how Katniss is dealing with her own prep team. Is she as irritated as me? Probably more so, knowing her. I imagine Katniss glaring distrustfully at every dyed, stenciled, jeweled hand extended to her, and the image sends mild waves of both amusement and worry through me. Will she be able to follow Haymitch's directions? Or will she snap and give them trouble for every brush stroke?

When my prep team is finally done with me, they drape me in a robe made of a cool, slippery material and flutter, giggling, from the room. I don't have long to wait before the door opens again and my stylist sashays in. My first impression of her is that she isn't anything like the other Capitol citizens I've seen. She wears a black tube dress and low, black heels. Two twisted bracelets jangle on one of her wrists, and her eyes are lined in silver. The black and silver make her look like a taller, much-toned-down version of Peppitra.

She introduces herself as Portia.

"So, Peeta," she says over a plate of something slightly squishy, which she calls 'health food', "I heard a nice piece of gossip from Effie, but I want to confirm it before I believe it."

Her eyes shine almost mischievously as she looks up at me, her bracelets clinking like the ice in her cup.

I finish chewing my bite of food-flavored mush- I thought Capitol food was supposed to be rich! – before answering. "What piece of gossip?" I have a pretty good idea _what piece of gossip_, but I don't want to say it, just in case it turns out to be something else entirely. Who knows? She could be talking about the chef and waitress I glimpsed holding hands on the train. Or that Effie's hair is a wig. Wait- no, it was Effie who told her. Maybe something about Haymitch?

"Well." She leans back. Her mouth scrunches up, like she's trying to conceal a smile. "I heard that you and Miss Everdeen were not only friends, but _together_." She emphasizes _together_ by separating each syllable.

"You heard correctly," I confirm casually, popping another forkful in my mouth.

Her contained smile abruptly turns down in a frown. Her brows pinch together. "I'm sorry."

My fork wavers halfway to my plate. That wasn't the response I was expecting.

As I inspect Portia's silver-framed eyes, it occurs to me that this is the first time anyone from the Capitol has reacted to me with sympathy. Any kind of sympathy. Effie even exclaimed that it was romantic that Katniss and I were going into the Games together. Romantic! But Portia seems genuinely saddened. Her eyes, a nondescript, muddy green brightened by her light makeup, gaze back at me without straying.

"Thank you," I murmur.

She nods tightly, then clears her throat and straightens. "Well," she says again. "Well. Cinna and I have been discussing your costumes."

"Cinna?"

"Katniss's stylist."

I nod, pretending not to notice that _Miss Everdeen_ is suddenly _Katniss_. "And?"

"And we've decided to try something new."

My newfound respect for Portia doesn't do a thing to ease the twist of dread in my gut. Something new? For the tribute parade? That can't possibly be good. I flip through my memories of past District Twelve costumes and shudder inwardly. What could be worse than being dressed in a skimpy miner's suit and dusted in black powder?

"We've decided to dress you both in complimentary costumes," she goes on, her words falling into the structured pattern of something practiced. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."

Coal miner's suit.

"We thought that, rather than focus on the mining, we'd focus on the coal itself."

Black powder, then.

"Specifically, the burning of coal."

That gets my attention.

Portia laughs aloud at my sudden interest. "No, you won't be dressed in a miner's outfit, like past years. Or in just underwear," she adds without humor. "Cinna and I have decided to light you both on fire."

It takes me approximately four seconds to process this, and six more to find a way to respond. At last I joke weakly, "Isn't the point to kill the tributes in the Games, not the parade?"

"No, no," she reassures, "It'll be perfectly safe. It's not even real flame, it's synthetic fire. And the suits are designed to light without lighting _you_." She stands, brushing crumbs off her skirt. "Want to see?"

* * *

I'm still not convinced, even when I'm dressed in the costume and Portia points out all the safety features to me. "The collar is shaped like this so the synthetic flames don't touch your neck- not that they'd do any harm if they did. And the fabric is designed to ignite easily from the source. And, if worst comes to worst, you can always unclip the cape from here."

Even when we're being herded through endless white hallways by the assistant, accompanied by my prep team, I'm still wary. My outfit is a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. The fabric- or, is it leather? – has an almost scaly quality about it, like the skin of a reptile, but it molds easily to my body. I feel a bit like a reptile, myself, dressed in the tight-fitting, protective skin. Chunky black boots lace up snugly halfway up my calves, my hair is slicked back and a lightweight cape is pinned to my shoulders. My reflection startles me every time we pass a glass window. Even in the vague, transparent reflection, I look… Different. Fierce. Not like me.

We reach a wide intersection of four hallways, where five more people already wait: a simply-dressed man with a trace of gold eyeliner- that must be Cinna, Portia's partner- three more Capitol people, each as ridiculous-looking as my own prep team, and Katniss. Her dark braid swings behind her as she speaks with the man I guess to be Cinna. She appears to be dressed in an outfit almost identical to mine, except for her crown-like headpiece, which sits near the back of her skull, and her boots, which reach her knees and have about an inch of heel to them.

And then she turns around.

Her eyes are framed in inky black lashes. Her cheekbones are highlighted, and her lips have the faintest hint of red coloring to them. It isn't really a lot of makeup, but that little bit goes a long way. She looks beautiful.

And it's wrong.

It's not her. Katniss's lashes are endearingly short, although nearly black. Her lips and cheeks are often flushed, from the cold or from exertion, but not the unnatural red they are now. She's beautiful naturally. I've always thought so. Now, not only is she beautiful, she's Capitol beautiful. It's wrong.

Even so, I have to admit that the outfit compliments her. I tell her this upon bumping my wrist against hers- I'm not sure if hand-holding is permitted within sight of her stylist and our prep teams- and she rolls her eyes.

"Have you heard? We're being barbecued." She nudges me.

"I've heard," I reply shortly.

One of the members of her prep team bounces over to us, his orange corkscrew curls bouncing with him. He fiddles happily with Katniss's sleeve, speaking in a stream of exclamations and sighs of admiration. I can't tell exactly what he's saying, but it seems likely he's talking about our outfits. Everyone is. Everyone except Cinna, that is, who accepts compliments with nods of his head and looks over our suits again and again, checking every seam and fold.

At last an attendant signals us and we make our way down a long flight of stairs, where we emerge into a yawning, cavernous space. It's filled to the brim with tributes, prep teams, mentors, escorts, horses and chariots. The wall opposite us is dominated by a door as large as the entire front of the bakery. I know from watching past Games that this door will open to allow the chariots onto the carpeted street outside, where tens of thousands of spectators will be packed tightly into elevated, terraced rows of seats. I can easily imagine the insect-like cameras swooping in, hovering, tracking us with nearly silent gears guiding their movements.

We pass every other district on the way to our chariot, since we're last in line. No one pays any attention, except for a few cursory glances from other stylists. Some look confused, which is easy to understand. Our costumes don't make much sense without the final touch. One stylist, from Four, I think, laughs openly.

"Trying to cover as much of them as possible, Cinna?" he calls as we pass by. "Trying to hide how pitiful they are?"

Cinna places a firm hand on both of our shoulders, as if in preparation to stop us from turning around.

The stylist from Four continues to shout after us, turning heads from all over the large, boxy hall. "It's not working very well! You probably should have just used sheets!"

Cinna marches us to our chariot. Our horses, black as obsidian, stand patiently, giving each other gentle _whuff_s. They turn their big, liquid brown eyes on us as he directs us onto the chariot. Katniss's jaw is set- whether from the taunts of the other stylist or from our imminent combustion, I can't tell. Together, Cinna and Portia arrange our clothes, adjusting Katniss's headpiece and draping my cape halfway over one shoulder. It seems rather pointless to me - won't our capes just blow backwards once we start moving? – but I hold still, using the time to scan the room for Haymitch and Effie. I would have expected at least one of them to be here.

With one last flick of the wrist, sending the thin fabric of the cape fluttering into place, Portia steps back. "There," she says with a sigh. "That'll do. Just hold still and we'll be right back."

They move away, leaving us standing in our chariot, staring ahead at the twenty-two other tributes preparing for the parade. From here, I can see some of their costumes. Directly in front of us, the two tributes from Eleven are dressed in blue silk shirts under crisp overalls, crowns of silver wheat heads resting on their brows. Their chariot looks almost as if it's about to tip over from the weight of the six-foot boy standing next to the tiny, large-eyed little girl. A prick of sadness goes through me at the sight of her, and I look to the other tributes. District Ten is dressed in exaggerated, gold-edged cowboy clothes, complete with the wide-brimmed hats. The tributes from Eight look like rag dolls, pieced together from uneven pink and blue patches of cloth and stuffed into oversized, frilly hats. They look ridiculous, and absolutely miserable. District One is in pink feathers, and Two is in gold and bronze. Of all the costumes, ours is probably the simplest, rivaled only by Eleven. For now. It'll be a whole other story when we're set aflame.

As if reading my mind, Katniss whispers, "What do you think? About the fire?"

I reply stiffly, thinking of the years' worth of burn scars that litter my hands and arms. "I'll rip off your cape if you rip off mine."

"Deal." She looks around in irritation, lips pressed into a thin line. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

"Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I realize how silly that sounds the moment the words are out of my mouth. Haymitch? Protect _us_? Not with the way he's been acting.

Katniss chuckles suddenly. It sounds more like a nervous hiccup than actual laughter. "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."

Then I'm laughing, too, and the movement shakes some of the anxiety out of my stomach.

The opening music swells suddenly from the multiple hidden speakers. The giant door splits in the middle and rolls open silently, giving us all a peek at the spectators waiting beyond. District One's snow-white horses lift their heads, happy to be moving, and trot forward. About a minute passes, and then Two follows them, their plated bronze tunics reflecting dully in the fading evening light. Three follows them, and then Four, and before long, the slightly-leaning chariot just in front of us is on its way down the road. At that moment, Cinna materializes at Katniss's shoulder with a torch.

"Here we go, then." He touches the torch to her cape and she gasps. I tense, readying myself to tear it off, but the flames don't touch her. They follow the line of her cape- almost as if there isn't a cape at all, just a shroud of glowing, shifting tongues of fire, running over her shoulders and down her back. Cinna lights her headpiece, then loops around to do the same for me. He looks at us apprehensively, then sighs in relief. "It works."

Katniss gives him a small, tense smile and he catches her chin in one hand. His next words are directed at both of us. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

He hops off the chariot, then pauses and shouts something. The throbbing pulse of the music drowns him out, leaving us to lean forward, watching his lips and trying to guess what he's telling us. He motions to us and shouts again. I catch something about hands.

"What's he saying?" Katniss half-yells over the music.

"I think he said for us to hold hands."

Our fingers twine together, and the flames follow the line of our now-touching capes, linking us. Cinna nods and gives us a thumbs-up just as our chariot jolts into motion. Our horses pick up speed, matching the high-spirited trot of the teams before them. We pass through the doors, leaving behind the Remake Center and entering the city.

It only takes a second or two for the crowd to notice us. They squawk in alarm, pointing, no doubt thinking we're being burned to District-Twelve-crisps. And then, as the seconds pass and we remain whole and unharmed, their attitude changes to that of awe. Heads turn away from the chariots in front of us to gaze at ours. And, when we pass a set of elevated, high-definition screens, I see why. The capes don't even seem to exist- just the brilliant flames that trail from them, snapping in the wind and curling over our shoulders. Our faces are illuminated in the glow, and our bodies, hugged by the scaly material, are wreathed in fluttering sparks and gossamer smoke.

I turn to Katniss to make a comment, and am struck silent. Seeing her beauty on the screen is one thing, but here, up close - so close I can make out each individual shadow her lengthened eyelashes leave on her cheeks – is quite another. The liquid flames of her headdress spill over, giving her a crown of fire that dares not engulf her. She is as powerful and beautiful as a queen. In the deepening shadows, her flames casts a protective halo of warmth and light around us.

From the corner of my eye, I see that the screens near us have cut to a close-up of our upper bodies. The crowd gives a collective sigh of admiration. Katniss is waving, even smiling, as if gracing her subjects with her presence. The crowds are eating it up. They call out our names, jump up from their seats, toss flowers and coins to the road. A blood-red rose comes sailing in my direction, and I lean out to catch it. I present it to Katniss and she takes it delicately, bringing the petals to her nose. She then blows a kiss in the general direction of the thrower. The whole stand reaches up to catch it.

Grinning, drunk off the music, the cheering crowds and the sharp scent of the fake flames, I tug Katniss closer. "Do I not get a kiss?"

She glances at the thousands of spectators to either side of us, then rises on her tiptoes and places a kiss, light as a butterfly's wing, on my cheek. Before turning her face away, she whispers, "Not yet."

Right. Because, as of yet, the only ones who know we're together are our stylists and the people on the train.

I join Katniss in waving and our horses toss their heads proudly. No doubt, they're loving the attention as much as we are, if for different reasons. For the horses, the cheers mean a job well done pulling the chariot and probably some special treat once they get back to their stable. Four us, the cheers mean sponsors. They mean a chance in the Games. They mean hope.

We finally reach the City Circle, where the chariots stop in the loop just in front of the president's mansion. President Snow himself, dressed sharply in a black suit and wearing a single, white rose on his coat, steps forward to give his yearly speech. The evening is quickly slipping into night as he speaks, and with each passing moment, the darkness grows and our fiery costumes become beacons. The screens cut between each tribute's face, of course, but I notice that they return to us far more often than is traditional. The cameras even hold on us as we trot around the Circle one more time before being swallowed by the doors of the Training Center.

We pry our hands apart, working the blood back into our palms and fingers, as Portia and Cinna gingerly lift off our flames. "Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say. "I was getting a little shaky there."

It's true. My fingers twitch, my nerves on overload from all the sensory information they've been getting for the past half hour.

"It didn't show. I'm sure no one noticed."

I snake an arm around her waist. There aren't any cameras in here, that I know of. And, anyway, they never show any footage from inside the Training Center except for scores and interviews of the various mentors and trainers. "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often. They suit you."

She scoffs and tries to wriggle away, but I keep her pinned to my side and nuzzle her temple, taking in the scent of pine that still, impossibly, lingers in her hair before letting her go.

Behind us, the closed doors of the Training Center rumble with the rotating of large, polished gears. Heavy metal beams slide across the concrete slabs and lock into place with a deep booming that I can feel in my bones. The Capitol is making it no secret how very trapped we are.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello!**

**Be sure to check out my new crossover, ****The Seeker and the Dandelion Bird****, if you haven't already. Please? :D**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**~Katniss POV~**

My first real battle in the Capitol is with my shower. At first I just stand, wrapped in a ridiculously fluffy towel that's roughly the size of the blanket on our bed back home, and stare at the book-sized console. Columns of little, round, colorful buttons are packed close together, organized in a peppy rainbow pattern. One row is for temperature, one is for water pressure, one is for soaps and one is for shampoos. But those are only the first four. After that, labeled in small, curly print, there are rows for scents, oils, massaging sponges and more. Who needs all this for one shower?

Finally, I give a sigh through my nose, shrug off the towel and decisively press three buttons that, judging by their labels, will result in a fairly normal shower. That is, if anything here in the neon-candy-Capitol could be anything close to normal.

Medium-hot. Medium-low pressure. Almond-scented soap. Spearmint-scented shampoo.

The water starts to run immediately, and soon after that steam begins to curl off the blue-and-green tiled shower walls. I step in cautiously, tugging the frosted glass door closed behind me. With the door shut, the steam builds up more quickly, and my skin grows damp before even touching the stream of fragrant water. I extend an arm, testing it, and it's… not objectionable. Very warm, but not nearly hot enough to burn, and slippery, almost, as if it's got some sort of oil in it. The thickening vapor smells faintly of something floral – maybe apple blossoms.

Before stepping fully into the stream, I take a habitual deep breath, subconsciously preparing myself to be underwater. But it's infinitely more like being in the rain than being submerged. Pumps in the front wall spew soap and shampoo at my touch, and it takes no time at all to lather into the thickest layer of silky bubbles I've ever come into contact with. The combination of almond and mint reminds me strongly of the tea we drink after dinner. The foam rinses out slowly, leaving my hair and skin sleek and nearly as silky as the bubbles.

I'm just congratulating myself on a job well done navigating the shower when my elbow smacks against the wall. And, in doing so, activates something. I skitter away from the inconspicuous, round hole in the tiles, but I'm not fast enough. A jet of a thin, purple gel explodes from the short nozzle, hitting me directly in the face. I sputter, trying to scrape the soap off my tongue, and rub my hands over my eyes. Which is why I don't see the small army of sponges that ambushes me from behind. I'm thumped in the back by at least half a dozen of them in varying sizes and textures. My heel hits a patch of that purple gel and I go sprawling to the thickly-padded shower floor. The supposedly nonslip mat, which has the appearance and texture of one giant, square anemone, leaves bruises on my left hip and knee.

Growling curses, I scrub off the gel and punch the largest button on the control panel. This one, at least, is easy to find: _off_.

As I step on the automatically-blow-drying mat, I send a glare over my shoulder. "Next time," I mutter as the last of the moisture on my skin vanishes in the warm currents of air.

The shower has nothing to say.

I'm reaching for my towel to dry my hair when I catch sight of yet another apparatus on the wall. This one has the outline of a hand in the center, and a row of inscrutable curly directions below it. I hesitate, then shrug and press my palm against the cool plastic. Instantly, a sharp tingling slices through my body, and I yank my hand back. I'm too busy examining myself for injuries to notice that my hair has been dried, untangled and parted until several minutes later. Once again, I silently curse the Capitol and everything in it.

Oh, well. At least I'm clean.

I spend at least an hour exploring my suite, which is larger than my entire house in Twelve. Everything is bigger here, it seems. Towels as big as blankets. Rooms as big as houses. And buildings as tall as mountains. At least, that's how it seems when I stand with my toes against the glass of the floor-to ceiling window dominating one wall. No, not a window. Just a wall, made entirely of crystal, so it looks as if I could topple towards the streets below with one little step. I play with the settings, zooming in on different interestingly-shaped buildings, until I get dizzy. Then I step away from the window-wall and sink into a plush armchair, which all but swallows me in sickening softness. I feel like I'm being smothered in velvet.

I'm surrounded by the highest of luxuries – fine food at my fingertips, furniture that adjusts itself to be more comfortable… showers that teach you self defense – and I'm miserable. It makes my physically sick. This floor alone, no, this room, could support half a district for who knows how long. And it's being used to house doomed children, year after year. I suddenly hate myself for even touching this room. Shuddering, I squirm out of the chair and launch myself into an aimless pattern, pacing around the room until Effie calls me for dinner.

Upon entering the dining room, I drop into a chair between Cinna and Peeta without so much as a 'hello'. I wipe my palms over my pants, trying to rid them of the diseased feel they picked up from the Capitol appliances. Peeta stills my movements by catching my wrist in his hand.

"What's wrong?" The pads of his fingers draw little circles on the back of my hand. "Did your shower attack you, too?" he jests.

I force my cheeks up in a tiny smile. "Yeah." It's simpler than the real answer, and I don't feel like explaining.

Haymitch shows up, looking more sober than I've ever seen him, and a server appears to silently fill all of our bowl-shaped glasses halfway up with a blood-red wine. I take small sips of mine, alternating them with bites of sweet, blue grapes, dark greens and thinly sliced roast beef. As Cinna and Portia accept praise and answer questions about our fiery costumes, Peeta throws me inquisitive glances. I pretend not to notice, choosing instead to stab at my green beans with unnecessary vigor.

My head grows foggy, and I push away my wine glass. I don't know how Haymitch can stand to go around like this day in and day out.

A pretty, young, redheaded girl sets an elaborate cake down in the middle of the table and deftly lights it. Flames curl around each other, momentarily lighting the room in a flash of orange and yellow, before they shrink to ice-blue waves that undulate around the edges of the china platter. No doubt, this particular desert was selected for our success at the parade.

The last of the flames vanish, and I turn to the server. "What makes it burn? Is it alcohol? That's the last thing I wa- Oh! I know you!"

Everyone around the table stiffens, and the girl's violet eyes grow wide in alarm. She gives her head a quick, frantic shake, then turns and rushes from the room.

Effie scowls at me. "Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?" She lifts her own glass to her lips, muttering, "The very thought."

"What's and Avox?"

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her." Haymitch gives me a pointed look, and I duck my head.

Effie has more to say. "And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's go give an order. Of course, you don't really know her."

"No," I lie, "I guess not, I just…"

Peeta snaps his fingers. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

I frown at him while trying to hide behind my glass of water. Delly Cartwright is the bubbly girl with frizzy, yellow hair and an unfortunate figure that caught us kissing in the meadow. She looks about as much like the redheaded girl as I look like Caesar Flickerman. But I nod anyway.

"Of course," I say as smoothly as I can, "That's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair."

"Something about the eyes, too," Peeta adds.

The adults relax. Cinna says, "Oh, well, if that's all it is. And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut."

I was right about the cake, then.

The dessert is consumed and the recaps are watched. Even having been there ourselves not three hours ago, none of us can contain the small sounds of admiration as Peeta and I emerge from the Remake Center doors in a trailing cloud of smoke and sparks and ruddy flames. The cameras focus on our linked hands for a few heartbeats before zooming out once more to show the entire parade from above.

Then it cuts back to us to show me rise up on my toes and place a feather-light kiss on Peeta's cheek.

Haymitch grunts. "Better keep that stuff to a minimum in public, kids."

We both look at him, and he goes on, slowly, as if explaining something to a child.

"People already know you're close. That much has been obvious since the Reaping. But if you really want to make an impression, you'll have to wait and build up anticipation before you reveal that you're a couple."

I sigh but nod. I'm good at hiding things.

"When?" Peeta asks.

Haymitch leans back, contemplating. "The interviews," he decides.

"How are we going to do that?"

"We'll have time to figure that out later." He tosses a hand in our general direction. "Now, get out. Let us grownups talk."

When we reach my door, Peeta hooks his arm around my waist, effectively keeping me from going in. "So, Delly Cartwright," he says, and I let my gaze slide past him. "Imagine finding her lookalike here."

I hesitate. I do want to tell Peeta about the beautiful, silent girl that I _have_ seen before, not matter what I told Effie, but… There must be any number of hidden cameras and microphones scattered around here, and I have the feeling that the Capitol wouldn't look all too kindly on the story.

"Have you been on the roof yet?" he asks, and I shake my head, not sure if I'm grateful or annoyed at the change of topic. "Cinna showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though."

Then, I understand. _No one will hear us talking._

"Can we just go up?"

"Sure, come on." He leads me to a delicate, metal door, behind which is a flight of stairs. These open up into a small, dome-shaped room, which is warm and steamy and full of lush, green leaves and tropical flowers. Another metal door, and we're outside.

The roof is more like a cross between a garden and a jungle than the top of a building. Thick, dark, tangled grass spreads across the whole area, crisscrossed by meandering stone paths. Vines, as thin as ribbons, ripple in the cool, slippery breeze, and cleverly arranged pots of flowers and pungent bushes form walls, creating a sort of maze. _I could get lost here,_ I think longingly. _I could find a nice little corner and curl up and never come out again._

We wind through various trees, shrubs and flower beds until we come to the edge of the roof, where a waist-high railing separates us from the sheer drop to the streets below. It's like when I stood at my window, except now, there's no glass to keep me back. Just an easily surmountable rail. Beyond, the Capitol sparkles in pinpricks of light in every color imaginable, like a frozen firework show.

Peeta rubs his hand across the cold metal bar. "I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might try to jump right over the side?"

"What'd he say?" I ask. I had been thinking the same thing.

"You can't." He reaches out, probing the empty air. A zap rings through the air and I draw in a sharp breath, but his hand returns to the railing, unharmed. "Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof."

I cast a disdainful look at the twinkling lights, which suddenly appear cold. "Always concerned for our safety," I say bitterly. Then, "Come on."

We move back into the garden, wandering until we're thoroughly turned around, and then settle into a little corner, shielded from view on three sides by thick, towering bushes. Peeta looks at me expectantly, then, and I know I'm supposed to talk.

So I tell him about the redheaded girl. I tell him about crouching, hidden under a jutting rock in the woods, when the hovercraft appeared. I tell him about the girl and the boy, and how she screamed his name as he was impaled and she was lifted away, into the belly of the hovercraft. About how she caught sight of me. And I didn't do a thing.

By the time I finish speaking, my whole body trembles. Peeta wraps his jacket around my shoulders, but the cold isn't the problem.

When she screamed the boy's name… Could that have been the last word she ever uttered?

I shudder again and turn my face into his neck, crawling into the cradle he's made with his crossed legs. His arms curl themselves around my shoulders and I sigh quietly. The jacket – and Peeta himself – guard me from the deepening chill of the night. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that the tuneless clink of wind chimes is birdsong. And if I open them and tilt my head back to look at the stars, I can imagine we're home, in the Meadow. Except, the stars are so much darker, here. Dimmer. The Capitol can suppress anything, it seems. Even the pure, frosty light of the stars.

We stay there for far longer than we should. Peeta strokes my hair and talks to me about meaningless things. Every so often, I raise my head for a light kiss. The moon rises, cloaked behind the incoming sheet of clouds, and casts a silvery haze on everything. We only consent to return to our rooms when an attendant comes looking for us, wringing his hands and informing us sternly in his ridiculous accent that we should be getting rest for tomorrow.

Peeta walks me down the stairs, reluctantly, it seems. When we reach my door once again, he gives me one more long kiss. The attendant gasps audibly, and I remember what Haymitch said about being discreet, but I can't bring myself to care. We break apart and Peeta drags his hand across my cheek once more before turning towards his own room. The click of the door closing between us feels as heavy as the boom of the Training Center doors.

Tomorrow, we will start training, and then we will be able to see the twenty-two other tributes who will all be trying to kill us.


	6. Chapter 6

**~Peeta POV~**

Haymitch grunts at me when we meet in the hall. He looks tired – tired, but not intoxicated. It appears he's been keeping his promise.

Katniss is already in the dining room, picking apart small, fluffy rolls and dunking them into her drink. Her eyes are on the window, focused on nothing, and she only jerks her head when we greet her. I wonder if she managed to get any sleep at all.

While Katniss slowly works away at her rolls, Haymitch swallows mouthful after mouthful of hot grain stew without chewing, and I fill my own plate with a modest assortment of eggs and fruits. I'm just finishing a wedge of purple melon when Haymitch slaps away his plate and leans forward, elbows on the table. It's a good thing that Effie hasn't decided to join us for breakfast this morning, or she would be twitching by now.

"So," Haymitch belches. "Let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Although…" He eyes us. "Something tells me I already know the answer to that."

"Why would you coach us separately?" Katniss asks. She's still systematically shredding her roll, but isn't eating it.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about."

I laugh. "I don't have any secret skills. And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels." I poke her in the ribs and she wriggles away, frowning at me.

"You can coach us together," she mutters, swatting away my second attempt at poking her.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do."

I stare at him. What I can do? Well, that's a short list. I can bake. I can sketch. I can tell when someone's had a bad day, but none of that will come in remotely handy in the arena. "I can't do anything. Unless you count baking bread," I joke feebly.

Haymitch doesn't pick up on the joke. "Sorry," he says, "I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really," she says, which I know is not true. I've seen her nail an apple to a tree with her hunting knife when she's mad."But I can hunt." Now, _that_ is true.

"And you're good?"

She looks to the window again, and I know she must be thinking about Gale. "I'm all right."

"She's excellent," I correct a little crossly. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring deer down."

Haymitch's eyebrows lift on his forehead, his bloodshot gaze turning to her. Katniss is scowling at her hands. "All right, fine," she growls, "But what about you? You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That's not nothing."

In my assessment of my own skills, that never came to mind. I admit that, when you look at it that way, it might be useful, but my quickly worsening mood won't allow it. "Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't."

Her mercury eyes burn into mine, and I know immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. She sees it as a challenge.

Turning abruptly to Haymitch, she says, "He can wrestle. He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

I end up snapping. "What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand-to-hand combat," she says, waving off my comment superiorly. "All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!"

The truth of her statement strikes me, and I lapse into silence. If someone was to attack Katniss with a short-range weapon… She's so little, her bones as fragile as a bird's... It wouldn't take much. My temples throb at the image, and I put one hand to my head. "I won't let that happen," I say through a clenched jaw. "And you know it."

If I didn't know her so well, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference in her expression. But I do know her, so I see how her eyes soften. This is the first time either of us has directly brought up what will happen inside the arena.

"You two will be working together, then?" Haymitch says blandly.

We nod. No question in that.

"Well, then. Well, well, well. That changes things." His dark gray eyes, like the eyes of a crow, glitter shrewdly at us from under his brows. "Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares."

"A few," I mutter. Several dozen is more like it.

"That may be significant in the terms of food." He drags his elbows off the table, replacing them with a pair of large, muddy shoes. I wonder how he managed to get them dirty in this place without an attendant swooping down on him to clean them. "And, Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player."

I think back to a Games several years ago, when Annie Cresta came out as victor. If it weren't for the flood the Gamemakers sent in, I suspect another Career would have won – a tall, heavily muscled seventeen-year-old named Angus. He tore apart five different tributes – literally – before he drowned in the flood. I try to imagine having to do that, but the image doesn't work. My hands belong hovering over a notebook or reaching into an oven, not wrapped around some poor soul's neck. I'm not sure I'd be able to kill someone unless it was either my life or theirs – and maybe not even then.

Haymitch speaks over my thoughts. "In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?"

We nod again.

Haymitch stands, bracing himself against the back of his chair. "One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute."

I shrug, indifferent. I suspect that would have ended up happening anyway, had he not ordered it. But Katniss tips her head quizzically. "Why?"

"Because we want to warm the audience up to you," he says emphatically. "The Capitol loves a good show. You two together is something new, and they're head-over-heels for it. You've seen that already. Give them something to talk about, _but_ – " he holds up a finger – "don't drop the bomb yet."

"The bomb?" Katniss repeats.

"Don't tell anyone else we're together," I translate.

Haymitch nods approval, then dismisses us gruffly. "Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training," he directs.

We have about twenty minutes until then.

Unsure what else to do, Katniss and I wander the halls of our floor. They're strangely empty. Effie has vanished, Haymitch is most likely still in the dining room and the Avoxes only emerge when needed. I stop to examine a window-sized photograph of a tree adorned with large jewels in place of fruit and Katniss clears her throat.

"So," she says. "The arena."

She doesn't need to elaborate. I place my fingertips under her jaw, tipping her face up. "I'll do everything I can to protect you."

Her brows pull together. "That's what I'm worried about."

"What do you mean?"

Shaking her head, she turns towards the picture. "You're going to end up putting yourself in harm's way to… What if…"

She's having trouble articulating her thoughts, and is quickly growing frustrated. Her frown deepens into a scowl and she drums one palm against the side of her leg. I wait patiently.

"I don't… want you to do something… stupid. For me," she clarifies.

"If it was for you, it wouldn't be stupid," I argue gently.

"Oh, stop being romantic," she snaps, whirling around. "Just be practical for a moment. It's better if something happens to one of us than both of us. If one of us gets hurt, fine. We'll deal with it. If both of us get hurt, or worse, we're out. Two injured allies never made it very long before being discovered and disposed of."

Her voice is verging on boredom, which can only mean she's trying to force down some strong emotion. Maybe fear.

I move hesitantly, unsure if my actions will comfort or irritate her. She doesn't move at all, at first, when I touch her shoulder, so I cautiously continue. I slide one arm around her waist, then the other, and at last she relents and leans against me. I fit my chin over her head as we both stare at the photograph, for lack of something better to do.

Her voice is quiet, strained, as she says, "Then again, that might not even be a problem. We might not make it that far."

"Don't say that," I order sternly, pulling her closer to me. "Don't even think it."

Because if she says it, even thinks it, I'll think it, too. I'll start thinking about how there's only one Victor. How there's a fair chance we might _not _make it that far. How, in the end, one or both of us will have to die.

"It's probably ten," she says suddenly, squirming away. "We should meet Effie."

Katniss chews on her nails until we reach the elevator, then drops her hand and twines her fingers together until they turn a blotchy white and red. They're near purple by the time the elevator doors open again and spit us out into an enormous, high-ceilinged gymnasium. The walls are dark, the floor is either concrete or metal – I can't tell which – and irregular structures jut up from the ground and walls, ropes stretched across beams and racks bristling with blades and projectiles. It looks like a cross between the wrestling room in our school and a torture chamber.

We're told to stand still while someone pins cloth squares that advertise DISTRICT 12 in bold, blocky script onto our backs. I barely notice when the attendant pokes me in the back with a pin, muttering a quiet apology. I'm too busy watching the semi-circle of other tributes, who are too busy pretending to ignore each other. I feel like I'm walking into a pack of hungry wolves when we join them.

A trainer named Atala steps forward to explain the rules of the Training Center, warns us to refrain from fighting and then releases us. Immediately, the Career tributes head for the racks of deadly-looking weapons and start hacking apart dummies. Half of the other tributes drift away uncertainly towards the other stations, and the remainder stand frozen, eyes wide, glancing at each other and then quickly looking away. Katniss's gaze sweeps over the Careers and their dismembered dummies, shoulders tense. When I nudge her, she jolts, hands clenching at her sides as if preparing for a fight. She quickly relaxes her posture, feigning impassiveness.

"Where would you like to start?" I ask, choosing to pretend I don't notice the anxiety that lingers on her face and in her eyes.

Those guarded eyes dart around the room again, and then she sighs. "Suppose we tie some knots."

"Right you are," I agree, and we make our way towards an empty corner, where the instructor is nursing a steaming mug and tugging halfheartedly at a length of convoluted nylon.

He brightens when we approach and asks, "Would you like to learn how to tie a wake knot?"

Katniss plucks the rope from his hands and starts twisting it. In no more than a few seconds, to the instructor's amazement, she hands it back to him, coiled into a neat, figure-eight-like shape. He quickly issues her a more complicated challenge, which she also completes easily, and seems delighted at her knowledge. Before long, he's got us both working on a simple yet effective snare designed to catch a person by their ankle. Katniss excels at it, and I fumble through the hour we spend on the project, eventually managing to construct a decent trap.

"Come on and let's go somewhere fun," I say, throwing my barely passable knot into the bucket to be unwound by some poor attendant.

"Fun?" she asks skeptically.

"Sure." I point arbitrarily and end up steering us in the direction of a large, colorful station labeled _camouflage_. "This could be fun."

And it is. Katniss draws little circles in the mixture of dirt and crumbled leaves on the countertop, her chin propped up on the heel of her palm, obviously rather bored. I, on the other hand, would be content to stay here for the rest of the day. I can compare the mud and berry juices to paints, and would, out loud, except I know Katniss would scoff at me for being poetic.

We move on to a fire starting station, something at which we are both fairly adept – I more than her – before Atala blows a shrill whistle to summon the tributes to lunch. There's a small cafeteria off the Training Center, extravagantly draped with dark, jewel-colored linen tablecloths and sparkling with crystal dishes. Katniss snorts at the fancy setup, no doubt thinking the same thing I am: why waste all this luxury on twenty-three soon-to-be dead children who have just come in from training, sweaty, tired and scared? Then, as I catch sight of the largest table, in the middle of the room, I know why. The Careers are gathered there, jostling each other and calling for various rare meats, which they are served with a flourish, and mulled wine, which they are denied. The fancy setting is for them. The ones who have lived in Capitol luxury their whole lives. To them, this room, which is far more elaborate than any room in Twelve outside of the Justice Building, must barely pass as adequate.

Most of the non-Career tributes choose seats at least two chairs away from anyone else and stare forlornly at their food. Katniss and I are the only ones talking besides the Careers, and she seems painfully aware of it. I try to distract her with a hypothetical situation involving a crystal glass and a hammer, but she won't be distracted. She keeps flinching whenever a Career cracks a joke and their whole table erupts in boisterous laughter. I don't even think she realizes she's doing it. I wish I could move my chair closer to hers, maybe hook one elbow through hers while we eat, but I can't. Haymitch's warning about not 'dropping the bomb' echoes in my skull, as if our mentor is sneering at us from across the table. Did he mean just in front of the cameras? Or in front of anyone, trainers other tributes included? Instructors have been interviewed before the Games in past years. Add that to the lingering presence of the purple-robed Gamemakers with their scratching pens and unreadable gazes, and I don't dare act on my thoughts. I content myself with locking our ankles together under the table.

I look up from the green-tinted District Four roll in my hand to find that the door between the cafeteria and the training room has been propped open. And that, from his elevated seat on the raised platform, the Head Gamemaker is focused on our table, pen flying across the surface of his clipboard. His lips curve up into a slight smile when he reads what he's written, and then he looks back at us. I turn away, not sure what to think of the attention, but I can still feel his eyes on us. Katniss must feel it too, though I don't think she saw him, because she shifts uneasily in her seat, craning her neck to scan the room.

Lunch ends and we return to circling between activities, but every so often, I'll notice a Gamemaker lingering near our station, clipboard in hand, watching us silently.


	7. Chapter 7

**I really am sorry for how long this took. I've been crazy-busy the past few weeks.**

**If anyone wonders about the last names of some of the tributes, I got them from their actors. For instance, Marvel didn't have a last name stated in the books, so I gave him the last name of his actor: Quaid.**

**Enjoy, lovely readers!**

* * *

**~Peeta POV~**

It's the third day of training and the Gamemakers are calling tributes outfor private sessions. It started at lunch, when every one of us was still inside the overly luxurious dining room. Two identically dressed attendants appeared – melted out of the curtained walls, it seemed – and smoothly closed the double doors. Many of the tributes tensed, hands tightening around last bites of food and cups pausing inches from parted lips. Moments later, hidden speakers clicked on and someone called, "Marvel Quaid."

The cocky, whipcord-lean boy from District One unfolded himself from his chair, smirking. Heads turned to watch him depart, then snapped back towards respective plates as the door closed behind him. Now, several minutes later, the procedure is repeated for, "Glimmer Rambin."

The leggy blonde who has been unsuccessfully trying to charm an attendant into bringing shots to their table struts to the door.

Slowly, sporadically, tributes drain from the room. Sometimes as much as twenty minutes pass between names. Sometimes just two or three. No one comes back once they leave, and it's impossible to hear what's going on in the training room once the door closes. All we can really do is pretend to nibble on any food left on our plates and try not to stare at the dull bronze doorknobs.

_Some of these names sound like they could be from Twelve_, I muse as I swirl the dredges of my apple cider. _Ginger Emerson. Willow. Rue_.

Katniss's fingernails bite into the wood of her chair as she watches the little girl slip through the doors, leaving us alone. I remember how upset she was when we watched the recaps and Rue ascended the stairs to the stage in Eleven. Then I remember how Rue has followed us these last few days, silent and wary-eyed, joining us at nearly every station. At least, I thought she was following us. Then, just this morning, when I went to get some water, I realized: Rue wasn't following _us_ at all. She was following Katniss. I had watched from across the room, a waxy paper cup in hand, as Katniss grew bored of the station I left her at and wandered away, seemingly unaware of the slight, sure-footed shadow that kept just behind her.

So caught up in my thoughts am I that I don't register my name being called until Katniss nudges me.

As I stand, she blurts, "Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights."

"Thanks. I will." I stand two paces from the doors, unable or unwilling to move forward. "You…" I glance quickly over my shoulder and meet her concerned gaze with a quick smile. "Shoot straight."

An answering smile quirks up one side of her mouth. "Always do."

The doors click behind me and I stride into the training room. Off-tune music emanates from the front of the room, and it takes me a moment to realize that the Gamemakers are _singing_. Drunkenly. Most of them sway back and forth, waving glasses in the air, the liquid sloshing out.

"Whah shall we do wih a dru'en sailah?"

Two women clutch at each other, giggling madly, while they stumble around the raised platform.

"Early in the mornin'! Way, hey, u' she risah…"

I close my mouth upon realizing that it's hanging open and turn away. Apparently, after twenty-two tributes, they won't even try to pay attention. I wonder how bad they were for Rue.

Clenching my jaw, I make my way to the weights. At this point, there's really nothing I can do but follow Haymitch's instructions and hope they see at least _some_ of it. There's a bright red punching bag leaning crookedly in the corner, and I start with that. I flip it over my shoulder, only intending to bring it closer to the middle of the room, but the resulting _bang_ draws the eyes of the Gamemakers. Some of them, at least. The rest keep singing their drinking song. Still, _some_ is better than _none._ I keep half an eye on the platform as I flip the punching bag a few more times, then go to retrieve some of the actual weights. The more sober Gamemakers make short notes on clipboards and talk amongst themselves while one man with spiked turquoise hair leads the group into another rowdy song.

No more than ten or fifteen minutes go by before they dismiss me. Their third drinking song has just ended, and I glance back at the restless group before I leave by way of elevator. Next is Katniss, their last tribute, and something tells me they will not be any better for her.

* * *

It's almost time for dinner and Katniss still hasn't shown herself. She made a stormy appearance for a brief thirty seconds, tripping off the elevator and heading directly for her room, not long after I reached the penthouse, and we haven't seen her since. She won't even unlock the door for me. Her voice is scratchy and muffled as she wails something unintelligible through the wood, probably telling me to go away.

Now, Effie is gathering us for dinner, and I'm afraid Katniss won't be joining us. Whatever happened upset her pretty badly. I doubt I'll see her unless I go to her door, kneel and beg through the keyhole for at least thirty minutes. I'm just organizing my arguments for her to come out when she enters the dining room.

She's been crying. That's the first thing I notice. Her dusky skin, normally so even-toned, is red and blotchy. Her eyes are swollen.

My arms have found their way around her waist and shoulders before I can blink, and I guide her to a chair. "What's wrong?" I ask, but she just shakes her head and turns away.

"Katniss."

She won't look at me – or anyone else, it seems. Reluctantly, I leave her be, sitting in the chair next to her. I know she won't tell me what happened if she doesn't want to. She's too stubborn for her own good, sometimes. There's no use trying to drag it out of her, or she'll just dig in her heels and make things even harder.

Haymitch stares blatantly at Katniss through most of dinner, obviously trying to catch her eye, but she won't look up. Effie tactfully remains focused on her fish soup, attempting to engage Haymitch in a conversation about the weather. He plays along until the main course is served, at which point he slaps down his napkin, leans back and says, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?"

Katniss stiffens and I speak quickly, before either she or Haymitch can say something that will set the other off. "I don't know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

Haymitch swallows his mouthful and jabs his fork at Katniss. "And you, Sweetheart?"

Here it comes.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

As I digest this, I find myself rather unsurprised. If they treated Katniss anywhere near how they treated me, it should be no surprise that she would get mad.

However, I seem to be the only one who has come to that conclusion.

"You what?" Effie shrieks.

"I shot an arrow at them," Katniss huffs. "Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!"

Cinna asks Katniss what the Gamemakers said, but my thoughts are elsewhere. As unsurprised as I am about Katniss's reaction, I am also worried. Will she be punished for this? What could the repercussions be? Could I keep her safe, if need be?

I tune in again in time to hear Haymitch say, "Well, there's that."

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" Katniss asks, echoing my fears.

Haymitch replaces a butter knife with a clink and tears away a part of his roll. "Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage."

"What about my family?" she pushes. "Will they punish them?"

My chest tightens with emotion and I take a deep breath to loosen it. Even here, even now, Katniss is concerned only for the welfare of her family. How can this girl think herself selfish?

"Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's secret, so it'd be a waste of effort. More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."

My stomach turns over at these words, but I force my tone to stay light as I say, "Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway."

"Very true," Haymitch agrees. Beside me, Katniss is peering around the table from under her eyelashes, gnawing at a corner of her lip. Considering Haymitch's words, probably.

"What were their faces like?" Haymitch sits forward, his shoulders jerking with huccuping chuckles.

For the first time, a small smile fights its way onto Katniss's mouth. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."

Now that the scene is forming in my mind – the arrow knocking the apple right out of a roast pig's mouth, Gamemakers scattering and diving for cover – I'm beginning to chuckle, too. Effie is the only one not laughing.

"Well," she says, dabbing at her lips with her napkin, "it serves them right. It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you." Her eyes widen, then sweep the room, as if searching for something. "I'm sorry," she says loudly, "But that's just what I think."

Effie ducks her head, ending her short speech with a long sip of cherry wine. I puzzle over her sudden anxiety. Surely Capitol-bred Effie Trinket has no fear of being overheard? Could what she said be considered out of line by the Capitol? If so, what would they do?

"I'll get a very bad score," Katniss is saying, stirring her soup with her spoon.

"Scores only matter if they're good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," Portia reminds us, as if we don't already know.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," I half-joke, nudging Katniss with a shoulder. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards? One almost landed on my foot."

She smiles, but then something darkens her features. Her smile is gone by the time she turns away. Avoiding my eyes again. Baffled, I reach out to tentatively rub her back. She doesn't respond. Could she be worried about her score? My score?

Through the rest of dinner, Katniss's eyes are dim and her smiles are stilted.

When Effie herds us all into the sitting room, I gently pull Katniss to a corner of the couch with me. She sits on the edge of the cushion, spine straight, not touching me. Her gaze is fixed on the blank TV screen. I can only imagine how nervous she is.

The television flickers on by itself, then gives us twenty seconds to settle ourselves and tune in. The first score appears on the green background, below the smirking portrait of Marvel. He earned a nine. Of course. Careers always get high scores.

My gaze flicks to Katniss every time a new number comes up. Her fists are pale and shaking on her knees.

Some scores are abominably bad – a three, even a two – but most are, as usual, mediocre. Lots of fives sprinkled with fours. The redhead from District Five scores an impressive six, which is then blown away by Rue's seven. How did that fragile little thing earn a seven?

All at once, it's our turn. My picture comes onscreen. What if I really do get a four? Or worse? Like Portia said, no one pays attention to bad scores, but we need all the sponsors we can get. A bad score could mean no parachutes in the arena. And that could mean tragedy.

The number eight appears.

Eight.

Eight!

That's a Career's score!

"Well done, Peeta!" Effie gasps, clapping excitedly.

"We can work with that," Haymitch grunts, his attention still focused on the screen.

Katniss is biting her lip so hard I expect to see blood under her teeth any minute. Her picture appears. Even captured in a photograph, her eyes are guarded. It seems as if none of us are breathing. Are they pausing for a longer time than usual? And then –

**11.**

Effie and Portia scream while Haymitch's eyebrows ascend to his hairline. Katniss looks to be in shock.

"There must be a mistake. How…" she breathes, still gazing at the screen. "How could that happen?"

Her question is directed at Haymitch, and he gives her a congratulatory slap on the back. "Guess they liked your temper. They've got a show to put on. They need some players with heat."

Of course. It always comes back to entertainment, here.

Cinna appears to hug her. "Heat indeed. Katniss, the girl who was on fire. Oh, wait until you see your interview dress."

"More flames?" she guesses.

"Of a sort." Cinna moves away, grinning, and I loop an arm around Katniss's waist.

"Pretty good, fire girl." I pull her closer. "Seems like your temper served you well, for once."

Katniss scoots away. I blink, surprised. I had attributed her distance earlier to nerves, but why would she still be nervous now? She's seen her score, and it's not bad – in fact, it's amazing. Better than any of the Careers. Is that what's bothering her? That they might target her for showing them up?

"Hey," I say, "Don't worry about the Careers, if that's what's bothering you. We can worry about that later."

"It's not," she says shortly.

"Then what is it?" She still won't look at me, and I try to drag her chin up with a finger. She shakes away my hand and gives an impatient sigh. I coax, "Tell me, so I can fix it."

"Just stop!" she bursts out, launching herself off the couch. Every head in the room turns towards us. "Just… We can't… Just stop." She's out of the room, braid flicking behind her, before I can register what happened.

Effie gapes at the empty doorway, then folds her hands in her lap and exclaims, "Well, I never! Running out like that. Yelling. What did you say to her, Peeta?"

"I – nothing," I say, still rattled by her sudden exit. "She was upset, and I asked her what was wrong."

"Best leave her be," Haymitch advises, catching my expression. "Seems like she's had a day."

I nod absentmindedly, and the nod must shake loose something that's been hovering at the back of my mind, because I say, "We should talk about something."

"Oh?" Haymitch says, one eyebrow arching.

Cinna and Portia courteously take this as their cue to bow out of the room. Effie sits attentively, ankles crossed, watching me and Haymitch.

I take a moment to organize my thoughts. "You said that we should reveal that we're a couple during the interviews."

"That's right."

"Who?"

"Well, that depends." Haymitch props his shoes up on the arm rest. "If Katniss reveals it, you'll be able to follow up in your own interview. But, you're better with words, and with you going last, that would make for better shock value."

"So?" I prompt. "You're the expert here. What do you think?"

"I think we should discuss that with your bonny lass. But not now. Right now, you give her some space, then you go kiss and make up, because we can't afford you two at odds if you're going to do this as a team," he all but snarls, then gets up and saunters out.

Effie looks indignant at his lack of manners, yet nods. "He's right, Peeta," she says quietly. "If you and Katniss are fighting, you should try to work it out. Tomorrow, I'd say. Give her tonight to calm down."

"Right." I stand up. "Thanks, Effie."

"You're quite welcome, dear," she beams, then fishes out a piece of paper and starts to scan it.

I retreat to my room, only hesitating a second before I pass Katniss's door. It's silent behind the smooth wood. No hints of crying or muttering. I continue on, but a cold prickle runs up my spine as I step down the hall. What if she's hurt? What if something happened she's not telling us about? I just about have my hand on her doorknob before I remember Haymitch and Effie's advice. Talk to her – but not now. Tomorrow.

By the time I settle myself into the silk sheets of my bed, my mind is whirling, and I know I won't get much sleep tonight. I'm plagued by gruesome possibilities. The arena could be a freezing wasteland. Or a swamp. Or, as I drift into nightmares, sticky with blood.

_A river of a smoking, acidic blue liquid sweeps me towards the black mouth of a cave. Portia totters in, decked out in matching blue pumps and earrings, and yells that I have to catch the sword. At that moment, a heavy blade falls from seemingly nowhere, but it's facing the wrong way and instead of catching it I slice my palms open. The shiny, black bodies of beetles swarm out in the place of blood, and then Katniss is helping me brush them away, but the acid is churning around our necks and before I know it I'm submerged, and I can't breathe, and distantly I hear Katniss screaming –_

I jerk awake, muscles locked in place, trembling. It takes me a moment to realize that the screams weren't part of my bizarre nightmare at all. I can still hear them. Katniss really is screaming.

She cuts off just as I stumble out of bed, so it's silent when I fling my door open and lurch down the dark hallway. I can only find her door because of the light that clicks on behind it, a bright, thin rectangle of light flaring into being near the floor.

"Katniss?" I call, trying the doorknob. Locked, of course. "Katniss!"

I'm sure I'm loud enough to wake up everyone on this floor, but I don't care. I can hear her panicked breathing through the wood.

"Please let me in."

A shuffling tells me she's approaching the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief. But then she speaks. "I can't."

"Okay," I soothe, "Okay, that's okay. Just… please tell me what's wrong."

There's more shuffling, and when she speaks again, her voice is nearer to the door, yet clogged. "You… you should go back to your room, Peeta."

"I will if you want me to. But first you need to tell me what's going on."

My patience is wearing, and it shows in my voice. Maybe it's the late hour, maybe it's the stress of the last few days, maybe it's just that the whole situation feels _wrong_. I hate that she's hiding something from me. I jiggle the doorknob again. "Open," I demand.

"Just go back to sleep, Peeta," she groans, begs, almost.

"I can't." I slump against the doorframe, sliding to the floor. "I can't sleep," I repeat, quietly. "I just wake up with nightmares. Why won't you let me in?"

She's silent for so long that I'm convinced she's walked away. But then she says, "Look…" Another, shorter silence, and then she sighs and begins again. "Look. This is what's best. We both know it. We're still a team, of course, but I think it would be better if we were… allies."

"What do you mean?" I ask, thoroughly confused. "I thought we already were allies."

"Allies… _Just_ allies," she clarifies. "Otherwise it's… too… I can't. I just can't."

I shift slowly so I'm facing the door again, this time on my knees. "Katniss?"

No response.

"What are you talking about? We're in this together, right? That's what we agreed. That's what we planned on."

"Right." The word, muffled by the door, is also strained by something she tries to hide with a cough. "Right, but, uh… Right. Of course, we're in this together. We'll go through the arena together. But I think it would be better if we went in… objectively."

I finally understand. I think I understood several minutes ago, I just didn't want to. It takes me some moments before I say, "Do you not want to be with me?"

"Yes – no!" she howls, and I jump as something – her fist, probably – strikes the wall in frustration. "I do want it, but we can't!"

"Why. Not?" I growl, patience and nerves both at an end. "Why would it be so terrible?"

The door is yanked open so suddenly that I nearly topple into her room. Bright light spills into the hallway, half blinding me.

"Because one of us has to die!"

Her shriek echoes down the hallway as she breathes heavily, hands braced on the doorframes, matted hair framing her pale face. As her breaths even out, her expression slips from intense to empty to hopeless, and her hands lose their grip on the door frame. She staggers the two steps between us and buries her face in my shoulder.

"At least one of us is going to die," she says brokenly. "It will just be that much worse if we're too attached."

_So that's what it is_. I suppose I should have expected this. It is Katniss, after all. I take her face in my hands. "I can't just not care for you, Katniss," I say gently. "Acting like we're strangers isn't going to make anything better."

She sets her jaw stubbornly for five seconds… ten seconds… then crumbles. "I know," she admits, covering her face with her own hands. "I know. But I don't know what else to do."

I stroke her hair habitually as her words absorb into my sleep-fogged brain. At last, I say, "We do the only thing we can do." Her quicksilver eyes glisten up at me in the too-bright lights of her room. She tilts her head inquisitively. "We protect each other."


End file.
